


The Messiah, Apostate.

by goodnightfern



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Black Comedy, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Chrollo's Pre-fight Powerpoint Lecture, Chrollo's Rambling Existential Crisis, Crack Taken Seriously, Cultural Differences, Dead Babies, Decapitation, Eye Gouging, Family Fluff, Feitan's Fanservice, Genocide, Gore, Grief/Mourning, Kikyou Zoldyck - Freeform, Kurapika Must Die, M/M, Meteor City's Collectivist Culture and Suicide Bomber Cult, Religious Fanaticism, The HxH Dystopia Conspiracy, The Moeification of a Mass Murderer, Togashi's Naming Conventions and Superior Romanization, What the Kurtas Took, Woke Hisollumi., bizeff is also a character, geophagia, postmortem leopika, schrodinger's underage thanks hisoka, the gory details of the kurtan massacre, the horror of single use plastics and not sorting your trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2020-08-10 14:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20137195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodnightfern/pseuds/goodnightfern
Summary: After suffering devastating losses, Chrollo Lucilfer goes on a journey of self-discovery wherein he confronts his fears, falls in love, and discovers the answers were inside him all along.How fortunate for Leorio to bear witness to this miracle.





	1. APOCALYPSE

**Author's Note:**

> hello. i'm just here to give my sweet Quwrof the romantic comedy he deserves. 
> 
> the succession war is meaningless & everyone dies and no one makes it to the dc bc even the hunters are nearly destroyed. i don't know. togashi give me a call sometime please tell me what the kurtas took from meteor city.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw: yeah kp dies pretty graphically in this chapter. just to set the story off right, yknow?

As each spider fell Chrollo's soul lost a shard. All he found were Hisoka's messages: bloodstreaks and severed parts, clues to a gruesome scavenger hunt, right until Shizuku walked into invisible knife-edged ribbons of gum.

Chrollo's speed only slowed when with his troupe. In the stampedes of the ship and his fragmented state Chrollo was unprepared. But if the spider must die let the head be last, and he laid in peace in Shizuku and Bono's remains at the end of a hall that led to a janitorial closet.

A shadow crossed his vision before Hisoka’s final blow.

Illumi stuck a pin as Kalluto severed the head.

"I heard you spoke to my mother about Kalluto." Illumi flicked back his hair. A streak of blood barely marred his face. “Not to break her heart, but it's time for him to come home. Think of this as a gift from Kikyou Zoldyck. The next assassination will not be free."

Kalluto wept, unable to meet Chrollo’s eyes. Chrollo’s split lips moved in voiceless reassurances. The last card had slit his throat.

Illumi left swinging the head and calling for a medevac as Hisoka’s headless corpse rose and blindly stumbled after. A puppet to the end. Chrollo found confirmation in that, at least. This didn't feel like a favor, but behind Chrollo's eyes the meteor was falling and his soul rose up to meet it.

He woke up clawing at the hands of outsiders somewhere bright and silent. As the veil lifted he heard screaming and moaning, _the weeping and gnashing of teeth_ -

Something stabbed him in the arm and he went down again.

The second time he woke up he was curled on a mat in the corner of an impromptu emergency ward. Patients lay on cafeteria tables draped in sheets, lined the walls on piles of rags, moaned and died on stretchers as nurses dashed between them. A tall young man silently yanked out a needle in Chrollo's arm. If this was the afterlife Chrollo could only assume this was his God.

"What am I doing here?" Something yanked at his throat, weakening his voice. The nurse heard and snapped his head up.

"Stop talking! If you mess up your stitches again I'll gladly let you die! Know how much anesthesia we've already wasted just to get you to stop killing yourself?"

The nurse reached with an antiseptic wipe; Chrollo folded his arm closed. "I've made my choice. There's nothing left for me here."

"Look, this isn't my decision to make either. I'm just trying to do my job. But you've got to - dammit, you don't even - I could've overdosed you in your sleep." He tried to tug Chrollo's arm back open. "You could've bled out internally."

Chrollo often forgot faces, but he remembered Yorknew well. This was the one driving the car, who told the last of the brutes to stop. Chrollo let Leorio pull down his arm, watched curiously as he slid in a fresh needle. "Really?"

"Huh?"

His own nen told him he had multiple stab wounds, several deep slashes, but no internal damage or even foreign bodies. All of his stitches were clean and neat. Hisoka played long with his meal, but there were many ways Leorio could have finished the job. "You could stick a foreign object in me," he told him. "Give me an infection I won't even know about."

"Right, you don't care if you live or die." Leorio slapped on fresh gauze and tape. "I _did_ give you a full ultrasound with my nen, by the way. You're gonna live. For now."

Chrollo stared at a low spattered ceiling. The moans of the dying overpowered the spirits of the troupe. Leorio stuck another needle in him and he closed his eyes, willing communion.

_"I'm wondering," Shizuku said, meandering as usual. "What if you could use my ability? Like when I sucked out the blood of that ant. I'm not fast enough to break his skin, but you are."_

_"Who knows if he even has blood?" Chrollo snapped. "He's just a puppet held together with gum. It's not worth it the risk."_

_"I mean, that's just it. We don't know. So shouldn't you be prepared for anything? If Blinky can help you -"_

_Chrollo whirled on her. "Shalnark and Kortopi thought the same. I asked them for their abilities knowing this. Where did it get them?"_

_"But -"_

_"Look," Bono cut in. "Even if Chrollo dies. We know what to do, right?"_

_"Escape by any means necessary and find Feitan or Phinks. When I die, it’ll be one of them. You know this already."_

In reality he'd been studying a fire escape diagram when Shizuku walked ahead. In the dream it was a diagram of a human heart. Exactly as he remembered from the first-edition publication of Leodarna Vici's anatomical studies, sold for ten million jenny.

Chrollo woke up weeping. When Leorio grumbled he gave no response. The Spiders were no more and their rules were worthless. All Pakunoda wanted was for him to live. Hadn't he known from the start, that the price of revenge was too high? 

All his life he'd tried to avert fate. Now it was time to accept.

Easy enough until the anesthesia wore off and the doctors hurled him back into the heaving chaos of the ship. In the wake of the riots there were soldiers storming, medical teams dashing, the fruitless commands of the Hunters delivered by blaring loudspeakers.

But there was still one thing the Troupe wanted to do on this ship.

When Chrollo was seven the king of Kakin sent a special delivery to Meteor City: two hundred political dissidents in a single decaying mountain. The fumes they'd been poisoned with fogged his gasmask. He found the ones he could carry and slid down the shale walls of the mass grave with them in his arms. Not one had a soul.

Even dead he found the force that propelled him. Even without the spider his soul remained. The stitches in his body served as reminder of his fate.

He slipped through the pandemonium when the hull breached. Nothing stood in his way; he posed no threat. Chrollo crawled through corpses and vents until he broke the crest and found himself floating before a cruise ship that rang of gunfire.

If the mourners noticed him he didn’t care. The rampaging nen beasts had missions of their own. Chrollo would find something, anything, and steal it. Then he would cast himself over the side of the ship.

Page seventeen held a roving eye that could seek high-value items. In one of the prince's chambers stood a collection of Scarlet Eyes. A proper memorial. The massacre of the Kurtas was one of their boldest strokes and proudest moments.

He followed luxurious rugs down wood-paneled halls. Even the hallways were hung with art - an original Leodarna he hadn’t stolen yet. A Pachaso he stole at age twenty-three. The First King’s vase snatched from a Hunter’s archaeological site and passed off for a cool billion. Fitting that it ended up in its homeland.

When the guards gave chase he pulled out his book. Anything to reach his final goal.

In the chambers of the fourth prince Chrollo met his fate. If he wasn’t resigned to death he would’ve noticed the intruder, or if he did he didn't care to stop. Just another mistake after the countless he'd already made. Once again he was caught in the dark, bound in chains, and unable to use nen.

The only light in the room was the soft glow from a shrine of scarlet eyes and the burning ones of the teenage mafioso before him.

"_You,_" Kurapika hissed. "Of course you had to be _somewhere_ on this ship. Where's the rest of your gang?"

Dead.

Chrollo looked at the eyes, sealed in glass within glass. Bulletproof, or only a simple display case? Two feet to his left. His arms and legs were bound, but -

"I've got an hour or so. I’ll find them soon enough.” Another chain rose. Another one Chrollo remembered.

No, Chrollo lived above the judgement of outsiders. Mafiosos and Kurtas alike were the scum of the earth. The final survivor joining their ranks was insult to everything the Spider stood for. 

As the chain struck Chrollo fell in an explosion of crystal. A tethered Kurapika followed with a scream, giving Chrollo just enough slack to roll through bloody glass. To sit up and bash the one lucky jar of eyes that didn't shatter with his head and re-open the wounds in his lips to snatch three eyeballs up in his teeth before Kurapika forced him into a sit.

Kurapika sneered like a child. In the scattered ruddy light he looked tremulous. "Don’t try. You know the price of those eyes."

Chrollo rolled the eyes between his teeth and swallowed.

Kurapika screamed in the tongue of barbarians.

Yes, Kurapika had a weakness. When a hand shot out encumbered with chains it would be useless to bite through, Chrollo went for the nose.

A good chunk of cartilage. Just enough to throw the balance off for a split second, to give him that instant to reach the throat. Chrollo didn't have teeth like Uvogin or Franklin, but they were sharp. Kurapika was small, slight, relied on the mafia's machines and the price of his nen. He hit the floor hard.

True killers didn't need nen.

Chains tightened, Kurapika gurgled, Chrollo chewed. By the time the muzzle of a Glackt 39 met his skull he swallowed jugular blood.

The chains vanished as the room lit afire in a blaze of eyes.

Strange, or else characteristic of a Kurta? Butchers and gluttons growing soft in their lush forest. Nothing of substance but their selfish hate.

Chrollo sat up groggy in the sea of broken glass. Spat out flesh and blood and muscle, heaved over a mosaic of reflected gore until he could puke up the eyes. In the bright light he could see the remains of a stateroom. A kingly bed held the remains of the prince, but the collection of uPhones drew his interest.

Should he take a photo? He could send it to everyone. Their phones were all smashed to bits.

The stitches in his own throat felt thick as yarn. His hands rattled and dropped the phone. Too many questions he couldn’t answer without the troupe. He remembered to sever the head, at least, but after digging in one trembling finger gave up. Chrollo was very good at squishing eyes, but other legs handled extraction. The eyes were too precious. He needed an embalmer - better yet, a doctor.

That was it. Though the gift came unasked, it demanded proper return. He flipped through his book for any kind of long-distance contact abilities. One required he could pinpoint the other's exact location, one required shared blood contact - that might work, but he never tried Leorio’s - and of course, teleportation within sixty feet only worked in a sealed room.

The ship lurched. Blood rolled across the stateroom floor to stain a patterned carpet. No time for this. Feitan would have it done by now. Chrollo’s vision blurred -

Leorio burst into the room sweating, holding his phone, shouting for Kurapika.

“Perfect timing,” Chrollo told him. “I need your help again.”

"Kurapika!"

Leorio hadn't heard him. The stages of shock entirely gripped him. A tall man with sloping shoulders: reeling, drooping, rushing forward as if he could save the corpse. When he saw Chrollo curled in the shadows with a book in his hand he recoiled.

"Oh, god."

Chrollo waved.

"What did you do to him?"

Killed him. Obviously.

“_Why?_”

“Self-defense?” A peculiarly individualistic act. The outcome determined it correct.

“You murderous son of a bitch.” Leorio crumpled, sobbing, lost in the weeping and gnashing of teeth. Outsiders found their grief so precious. “I just - he was just - no, no, _no_-”

Chrollo's mother was an amazing woman. “Are you ready?”

Leorio raised puffy red eyes.

“You need to extract the eyes as soon as possible.”

"I should've killed you when I had the chance." Leorio seized one of Kurapika's hands in a grip that crushed bone. "But - but _he_ was supposed to - no, I mean - Kurapika… you - you - I'm sorry I wasn't fast enough, I - oh my god you _ate_ him to death."

"I wonder if I could have used nen," Chrollo mused. "If the Spiders are all dead, am I still considered a member? What were his conditions like?"

"I'm not telling you shit!"

Rhetorical question. "Start extracting the eyes. I've already severed the head for you. If you need my assistance -" Another siren wailed. The stateroom shook; a thousand armed feet stomping on the lower decks. "I might have an ability."

He splayed out a hand in a casual soulsweep: manipulation-reinforced emission for the purpose of clean-up. In Meteor City it might be used to quickly clear an area for children to play. Here Chrollo swept up broken glass, separated the eyes and rolled them off in a loose pile. Now Leorio had space to work.

"What do you want his eyes for? So you can sell them off again? You monster, I’ll -"

"If you don’t do it -” A siren interrupted. “If you don’t do it, I’ll do it myself. We don’t have time for this.”

“Don’t you dare touch him!”

“Then get to work.”

Leorio did not get to work.

“Do it now before I kill you."

That did the trick. Leorio gathered Kurapika's head in his hands and fixed Chrollo with a devoted, passionate glare. "I'm taking the eyes for Kurapika. I'll - I'll - I’ll reunite him with his clan. Like he always wanted." Resolve cracked. Shoulders shivered. Leorio caught his breath when the ship rolled again. “Don’t try to stop me!”

Certainly not.

First Chrollo sealed the door with a zetsu-reinforced cloaking ability and a lock. He turned on an overhead light and pointed Leorio to the bathroom. When Leorio screamed he came running; a drowned infant’s corpse blocked the sink.

"A mercy killing?” Chrollo lifted it up. A little girl, perhaps six to ten months. “Did Kurapika do this?"

"Kurapika wouldn't kill a child! If anything you did it!"

Chrollo raised an eyebrow and neglected to comment on the history of the red-eyed demons. He removed the infant and drained the sink. After Leorio washed his hands he cleaned the blood off his face and hands and only wasted a second staring in the mirror.

When he returned with the infant Leorio was still staring at the rest of the corpse. Chrollo grabbed it by one leg and dragged it away on a red trail. On a childish whim he propped it up and tucked the girl between Kurapika’s arms.

No time to waste. Leorio rummaged around his medical bag. Chrollo saw forceps, clips of all kinds, fancy little bottles, a ton of bandages. Most of Chrollo’s books on medical sciences were unfortunately antiques that still spoke of the humors. He picked through the tools while Leorio shuddered and sobbed over the head. A prick of aura got him moving.

"My clips and speculum are too big," Leorio said. "I - fuck, I'm just gonna - I can't mutilate him like this - shit, my stitches are all wrong."

"Aren't you a nen user?”

"I'm gonna do this right!" A brilliant red sun shone from the head. Chrollo looked away while Leorio reached for a pair of tea shades. But he couldn't help but squint, fascinated, as Leorio grabbed the eye with a clean set of forceps, rotating it so that the pupil roved like a strobe. "Okay, scissors-"

Chrollo handed him scissors.

"I wasn't asking you! And not those ones, the little curved ones! You're not my tech!" The ones he grabbed were certainly curved. "God, just, leave me alone. Please. I'm doing what you want. Don't kill me."

Leorio continued rotating the eye while probing in with scissors, muttering. Possibly for his own comfort, or else Kurapika's. Lovely words like _rectus_ and _conjunctiva_ passed pleasantly over Chrollo's ears.

"What's the Tenon's capsule?"

"Doesn't matter anymore because Kurapika won't be getting _implants._" A flick of blood lashed up from a nerve, or perhaps a ligament? "Sorry, Kurapika. Look, I've only done this on dead bodies. Preserved ones. In school. It's really hard to f- oh god, okay, forceps again -"

"It's often helpful to talk your way through the process.” The forceps were right under Leorio’s wavering hand. Chrollo helped him find them. “What are you doing now?”

"Trying to find... the optic nerve? Which also doesn't matter because it doesn't matter if he hemorrhages! He's dead!" Leorio yanked, too hard, and held aloft an eye with dangling severed bits. "Fuck it. I'm using nen on the next one. If you're gonna sit around go get me some ice!"

The next eye came out in an instant, perfectly encased in a bubble of aura. Leorio swore again as Chrollo started breaking and shaking the little icepacks that were already in his kit. Leorio wrapped them tenderly in gauze, cradled them in his palms, and then saw the rest of the eyes.

The fourth prince owned ten full sets. A single eye could feed every resident of Meteor City for at least a year. Twenty could rebuild the third recycling tower. Not even the Kurtas knew the value of their eyes.

"Ice bucket?" Chrollo offered, and left him there.

He never made it back from the staff closets. The guards were on the alert, forcing him to divert. By the time he made it the chambers were a crime scene and Leorio was explaining himself with his hands up.

Chrollo spent the rest of the journey on the run amongst the Kakinese civilians. When the ship sank he huddled with the survivors on a lifeboat. They washed up on the shores of the new continent, newly awakened souls terrified, ready for their final judgment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. chrollo says and thinks in some very confusing terms. this is because he's from meteor city and they do things a little weird there. he's a freak. it'll make sense later. 
> 
> 2\. both of the chrollo character analysis videos on youtube are Wrong and i am Right,  
3\. meteor city is an actual place with some sort of functioning society with a running history of, seriously: suicide bombers. i have Lore.
> 
> 4\. i think it's obvious that a huge portion of the black whale plot will involve every civilian on board learning nen. anyone can use nen, it's the Hunter Association that makes a big deal out of who should be allowed to use it and tries to keep it some secret, and MC is _not_ the world we see in the manga


	2. GENESIS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bizarre MC exposition and religion will be Explained later.
> 
> there are actually so many ways the dark continent arc could go but this is the one wherein the expedition totally fails, the only ones who make it are ging and pariston off the grid on a dragon, they missed the boat they were getting starbucks and fucking just, a lot. anyways if you haven't read the KP's memories chapters i recommend them bc it's /incredibly/ obvious all was not well in the forest and chrollo was indeed, out for some sort of revenge for MC.

Darkness swallowed them whole. With lungs fit to burst Chrollo tried a gasp, only to shrink as the walls crept closer. Shizuku still breathed a moist patch on his chest, but the familiar rattle of her lungs was slowing. Sweat slicked his grip on her body.

A moment inside a fridge was too long. Too many times Chrollo found snuffed-out souls. In the magazines these things were always stuffed with food. In reality they were tombs.

His head grew light as his soul surged. He sat up blinded in the light still clutching Shizuku. Sharp winds from the desert swept some of the fumes earlier this morning; he choked on clean air and spat grey mucus while Shizuku gasped.

“Fifty hundred!” Shalnark beamed. “I counted.”

“Wonderful, Shalnark.” Chrollo stepped out of the refrigerator shivering in sweat, hurriedly draping his robes over his head. Behind him Shizuku reached for the door again; ever on his toes, Chrollo swept her right back up .

“I _was_ gonna open it,” Shalnark added. “I counted.”

“I know you were.” Of course Chrollo didn’t trust two lives to a three-year old, but Shalnark knew his ABC’s and could count to ten. As long as he felt trusted.

Shalnark never crawled inside fridges. Even Colthophy heard him the first time. Chrollo sighed and trapped Shizuku in his lap as he settled back down amongst his books, and so order in the wellspace was restored. In the late afternoon crows sunbathed and the children had already completed the second purification of the day.

“Don’t ever make me do that again,” he told the children seriously. “Shizuku, will you remember this time?”

Shizuku stuck a wandering finger in his nose. Something an infant might do. The fact that she was as big as Shalnark disconcerted him.

Pakunoda, still on the edge of the gathering, wrapped her arms around her knees. “Nah. She won’t.”

Chrollo glared. Pakunoda kept promising she’d bring Machi around sometime. At thirteen Chrollo knew when to leave it, but he'd been trying to get Machi for years now. “She’s a baby, Pakunoda. Have faith.”

Before he could return to his lesson plan a rock struck him in the head. Chrollo reeled as a familiar mocking tone sailed across the wellspace. The influx of teens had arrived.

“Oooh, look at the little elder in training!”

“Watch out - if you disrespect the _soulcatcher _he might start crying again.”

After a day of tilling the compost fields Phinks and Uvo had stripped down, bright yellow hazard suits ending at their waists. Nobunaga immediately bent his head back down to a book he held upside-down.

“Yeah, you’ll really impress when the dons come scouting. Get right on your knees and -" Phinks mimed sucking a cock. “He doesn't even _work_ anymore!”

“Cool it." Franklin headed straight for the well. “Chrollo’s doing his own job.”

“I can say my ABCs.” Shalnark wriggled. “A, B, - um, F, A, C -”

“Stop making fun of him,” Pakunoda said. “He_ just_ got out of a fridge."

Nobu mumbled something that made Uvo stare. From his heap of trash above the wellspace, Feitan cackled. Chrollo stood up and handed Shizuku off to Pakunoda. “You two are welcome to join us anytime. Especially you, Phinks.”

"Gimme a break." Phinks rolled his eyes and rolled back a fist. "What are you gonna do? Fight me?"

"I don't want to, but you start too many. It's been a problem. For ages now. Do you want to die out there in the desert?" Chrollo was smaller than Phinks. Weaker, too. But he had been watching, and he knew how Phinks operated. "You're older than me. When the dons come they'll grab you first. I don't want to fight, but I can't see you dying in their fighting pits." 

"I'm not gonna die! I'll be a champion! Punch them in their stupid face -"

"And get shot?" Chrollo asked incredulously. "Everyone who leaves Meteor City, even willingly, ends up dead or addicted to drugs on the streets. Don't be a idiot, Phinks."

Uvo got nervous, but his softer side was more apparent. Not a target. Even now he glanced nervously at Nobu while Phinks cracked his shoulders, backing away.

“Alright, kid," Phinks snapped. "You asked for this!”

Always with the right hook to the ear. Chrollo raised his forearm, dodging, and brought his other hand up in a savage jab to the throat. It was a move he'd read about; it would be lethal if he wasn't small. As it was Phinks fell clutching his throat, coughing, eyes gone wide. A no-mask day to be sure, but it always hurt to breathe. 

The next time he grabbed Phinks' throat it was with the techniques of the healers. Phinks had a soul that made the water sweet, and Chrollo could sweeten his pain and relax his bruised trachea. The shattering pain in his forearm could be fixed later. "You're right," he told Phinks. "I'm sick of the elders, too. When we let the mafia take from us it goes against our teachings. But they're stronger than us. They use weapons beyond our capabilities."

Phinks nodded, choking bile. Chrollo cupped his cheeks and knelt over him. Sounds radiated from where he'd been struck with the rock, the echoes of silenced cries. Strong boys gagged in the night and dragged off in exchange for shoddy gasmasks and powdered cheese. Meteor City had its own food: clay and cockroaches and the crows that fed on them.

"I don't want to fight you, Phinks. I want us all to fight_ back._ Teach me how to fight; I'll teach you how to read. To know thy enemy is to defeat him. Knowledge is power, and when wielded well we can take back everything they've taken. All that and more. Do you understand?"

Phinks wept. Chrollo's soul flared with love. Another soul gathered, another cup filled, another hand to hold beneath the meteor's shadow. Tomorrow Phinks would discover one of the books he mocked was the 12th Edition Shooters Bible and the manual to the Stg Sour.

Crows awakened, soared cawing into the haze. "Uvo, carry him to the healers. Phinks, I expect you in this wellspace tomorrow." Chrollo kissed him where the elders anointed him with ash years ago, in the middle of the forehead where souls slept.

In three days the Lustro associates came scouting. Chrollo knew how to disassemble the Stg Sour 35 held to Uvo’s head. Uvo swallowed for as long as it took: an instant to bite the cock while Chrollo snapped his wrist. Crude weapon, but as the books said: Never point a firearm at anything you don’t want to shoot.

No need when Phinks was there to beat his skull into a paste. They built a scarecrow from the corpse with their message: Colhtophy's painting stabbed in the crotch.

By the time the Lustros retaliated Franklin knew how to mimic bullets with his nen.

The king of Kakin intended to build a palace and settle this land with a population of 200,000. Two months in they had a refugee camp with less than three hundred survivors. No kings, no princes, no elders, and no knowledge of the meteor that could land at any moment. Even Benjamin was no longer king.

For all Chrollo’s failures he was still the soulcatcher of Meteor City. For the survivors of a king’s cruelty he did his duty. He plucked a dark caftan from a corpse reminiscent of the robes he wore as a child and went to work amongst the tents.

The new nation of Kakin was lucky to be surrounded by water. Beyond the fences strange and feral beasts might lurk, but in the settlement the villagers played and shat and bathed in the same river they drank from as they discovered the long-lost art of agriculture. While the makeshift clinic was plagued by dysentery, Chrollo set up a primitive system. With some carefully applied abilities, hollowed logs, and the help of the collective he constructed a basic waterway, a cistern, and installed a public fountain.

On this particular sunrise Chrollo assembled a ragged cast of transmuters and enhancers to begin their first water purification. Somewhere Phinks and Machi laughed.

“Transmutation _can_ remove the saline,” Chrollo explained, encasing the faucet with aura. “But as we’ve learned, transmutation can only do so much. Lily, if you would?”

Lily was a natural enhancer. Four children from four reluctant fathers and a smile that told you why. “So I just hold out my hands, right? And then -”

“Not yet. Remember the basics. First, state your purpose.”

“I’m gonna... do magic to the water to make it good and clean?”

Chrollo shook his head. “You’re going to say, ‘Chrollo, I agree to enhance your transmutation of the water.’ You’re enhancing me, not the water.”

In the eternal landfill of Meteor City toxins leached into the soil and poisoned the groundwater. Purification of wells was taught to children as soon as possible. Twice a day; once in the morning and once in the afternoon, an hour’s work that was more like playtime. One of Chrollo’s earliest duties as soulcatcher was gathering the little ones to the wellspaces. He paired them according to ability, then held their hands and led them in ritual.

At forty-two Lily was still muttering to herself. Chrollo smiled with the patience of the soulcatcher.

“Lily?”

“Chrollo, I agree to enhance your transmutation of the water.”

A bit ritualistic, but only a meteor could truly help these people. Chrollo did his best in the meantime.

“This step may not be necessary since you’re all Kakin natives. I encourage you to experiment, but as an outsider I need to create some sort of bond with you.” Perhaps a memory? Less spiritual, more basic. This was just water. “Lily. Spit on your hand.”

“Uh…”

Chrollo spat on his hand and held it out until she complied. “Wonderful. Our hands are already joined, souls united. Now I’m going to touch the pipe, and you’re going to focus on enhancing me. Don’t forget enhancers can increase the volume.” In Meteor City an enhancer could pull water up from the driest reserves. A serious talent could make the well run over. “But with me as a conduit, there’s no chance of you bursting the pipes.”

They'd find other ways in the future: a conjurer could seal off their aura, for example, and get manipulated to remove particles from water. That could be taught tomorrow. For now working with Lily would help her eventually teach. While Chrollo would never practice combination nen with an outsider, the Kakinese slid in easily without complaint.

As the sun rose and the crowds gathered he laid down the rules before inviting them to the faucet. Everyone could fill whatever vessel they had, but anyone who took longer than sixty seconds must allow at least one person to step in.

Almost like home. The day passed luxuriously. Leorio was burdened with a two-hundred gallon tank the Association had scavenged from the wreckage, pulling a makeshift man-pulled wagon. It would supply the tent clinic for at least a day. During his frequent breaks Leorio scowled at the earth, crossing his arms.

Because he was supplying for so many wounded Chrollo granted him two minutes at the fountain. Still he frowned and muttered to those waiting their turn. Curious, Chrollo leaned against the tank as he screwed his hose on the pipe.

“You heard the lesson,” Chrollo said. “Do you think those principles of purification could help at the clinic? You spend so much water washing your hands.”

Leorio mutely twisted the tap. Though he couldn’t be over twenty-five, hung-dog and silent he looked older than Chrollo. Today his hospital scrubs were stained with vomit.

“The clinic uses a l_ot_ of water.”

Leorio shrugged.

“I’m not a fan of indoor plumbing… private access to resources creates inequity. Once we have a proper wellspace network this’ll be easier.” Or rather, _font_space? “I’ll set one up right next door to the clinic.”

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about?”

“Meteor City is in the middle of a vast desert.” Chrollo spread his hands to encompass the fontspace. “Our public wells are the foundation of the community and our traditional healing is different. I know you're experimenting with nen, but I'm not aware of your specific needs.”

“Yeah - I mean - yeah. The clinic uses up a ton of water. I know. Talk to Cheadle. She’s my boss.”

Cheadle was a dog of the association that disallowed domestic and civilian use of nen. 

“Why does_ he_ get to go so long?” someone shouted, and the crowd erupted.

“Wait your turn!”

“You wait! I’m going next!”

"Screw it, buddy! I got three kids!"

Chrollo opened his book. No refrigerators in New Kakin, but Chrollo wasn't a resident. Some teachings demanded harsh lessons. If a fight broke out, Chrollo wouldn’t hesitate to -

“No fighting within the group,” he snapped. “Remember the rules. If you have a disagreement -”

_Flip a coin._

Feitan’s ghost laughed. Time stopped when Leorio rounded on the crowd, shouting, "Can’t you see he’s about to kill you all?” 

This formerly enslaved mass of survivors took nothing from Chrollo. Not the sort of people he typically slew. He was a master of _in_ and these people - 

Turned to him as their leader. His heart twisted.

“Don’t listen to this asshole,” Leorio went on. “Listen to _ me. _The clinic needs water, everyone’s got dysentery, and I don’t need some loud-mouth yahoos wasting my time! Now you all have to wait your turn!”

Fear and confusion gripped the crowd. Fine. Outsiders denied him as usual. 

Chrollo redirected his aura and lashed out directly at the open fountain. In a moment every container was full. Leorio jumped, splattering everywhere, as he tried to twist off the hose.

“That was _ ren _,” Chrollo said, tearing off his bandanna and throwing back his hood. “Mine and mine alone. You won’t be able to rely on it forever. I won’t do this again.”

He needed to go home. In the plastic catacombs he would meet with the elders. A quick emitted hand swept up the water Leorio spilled, and he cupped his own palms to drink glistening sunlight. When Leorio took up his poles he trailed along after.

“Why are you following me?” Angry wet eyes flickered.

“You said I should speak to Cheadle.”

“Did you… why did you… what the fuck _ are _ you?”

“Don’t your people practice water divination?”

“Yeah, but -”

“We do the same. When I was three the ground around me immediately started soaking up water. The second time the elders brought cups.” Chrollo could still see the multicolored lights of the catacombs. ”And so I was anointed soulcatcher.”

In the heat of noon Chrollo had cast off his hoods. Leorio muttered something to himself and dropped the poles, stripped off his shirt and draped it over his head. “_Anointed. _”

Chrollo hopped on top of the water tank as it began moving again. “As others give to me so I give to them, and so our cups runneth over.” The most reliable pages in his book were the abilities given to him willingly. The wagon shuddered when Leorio paused for an arguing couple retaliating against untrained lashes of aura.

Leorio’s muscles were not built for fighting, but the weight of the tank was proof of his strength. Sweat ran between his shoulder blades, catching the sunlight. “Oh yeah? Did you _ catch _ the souls of Kurapika’s clan and send them flying up to heaven?”

“The Kurtas had no souls.”

The tank dropped again. “Why are you telling me all this crap? What is wrong with you?”

“I’m trying to answer your question. All of my cups have shattered,” Chrollo told him blandly. He brought a hand to his throat; while the stitches had since healed, he could still feel their bite. “You’re the only reason I’m still alive.” Seek new allies on his journey east, yes, but the new continent was beyond prophecy. Perhaps he was an idiot. Children crossed their path scattering untrained aura. “I don’t know what our fate is yet,” he admitted. “But -”

“Yeah, and I don’t wanna know.” He punctuated with a grunt. “My question was why the hell you’re acting like these people are your freaking cult. The people of Kakin have suffered enough. That’s why I’m still here, at least.”

“I know,” Chrollo said miserably. “But I - was my intent really that strong?”

No answer from Leorio. The wagon came to rest in a muddy rut before a selection of slightly less-shabby tents. Though the Hunters clearly had some secret resources, right now the new clinic wasn’t much different from the rest of the camp. More moans, more fecal matter. Chrollo wandered the mess of beds until he was directed to the boss.

He knew a little about the Zodiacs. To change one’s appearance to satisfy a nickname was stylish, he supposed, but he noted the symbols of Batican City and the Catholic Church at her neck. Chrollo did not rage, for he was coming to her in complete good faith. Head wrapped and a license plucked from a corpse.

“I’d like to ask you about installing a new fountain here,” Chrollo told her. “I’d need some help from you, of course. Can we speak for a moment?”

“Oh! Of course. You’ve been a real lifesaver, you know. One moment.” She called to another nurse. They ducked out of the tents and walked to the edge of the disease-ridden river that ran through the city.

“We’re low on supplies,” Chrollo told her, “and most of what we can scavenge from the ship is too waterlogged to be of use. I’d like to request a return trip. The only thing is… Leorio wants to go home as well.” Chrollo smiled. “He didn’t want to ask you himself.”

“To go _ home _?”

“He’ll be back.”

“Well - we’re in the middle of regrouping -” Without the dog ears Cheadle looked nearly human. She wiped a sheen of sweat and pushed back her bangs before putting back on her bonnet. “I mean. While we haven’t got the resources ourselves to send anyone back yet...”

Obviously the people of Kakin needed to believe there was no escape from the new continent. The Hunter Association would make sure of it. If every civilian learned they could use nen, the exact same thing that happened on the ship would happen to the world. 

For now the Hunters weren't leaving them to die, but he wondered how long their interest here would last. Soon enough they'd move on, cut off all help. No one would ship garbage _this_ far away, Chrollo hoped, but he wouldn't be suprised if the new continent ended in another silent genocide.

On the other side of the border fence strange shadows moved in the woods. Chrollo maintained perfect zetsu. 

“Wait a moment,” Cheadle said suddenly. “What’s your name? I don’t recognize you. You’re one of the hunters, right?”

One day the hunters would learn to put ID pictures on their licenses. For now they could keep their secrets. It was obvious they were divided and suffering themselves. Going home was the utmost priority.

Cheadle sighed and rumpled her stained dress. “All right, I guess. I’m the one who wants to stay here. But Morel’s coming by soon to pick up anyone who wants to go back to regroup. Some of us are staying, some are going, it’s all up in the air. As for Leorio -”

“He’s still grieving,” Chrollo said softly. “And he holds the last of the Scarlet Eyes. All he wants right now is to honor his dead love.”

“I’m aware of that,” she sighed. “He’s a good kid, you know? We’re all suffering. The thing with the eyes -”

Money would certainly help. Bringing it up might seem too mercurial. Cheadle might be human, but still a gatekeeper.

Cheadle pursed her lips into a frown. “I suppose he deserves a break. It’s been rough. None of us expected anything like this.”

Easier than expected. Too good to be true. No need to fight, even. Chrollo suspected she hid a softer heart somewhere, and it was true: everyone had suffered too much to argue. He smiled and bade her farewell. 

When he returned he wouldn’t waste any time hunting down the remainder of the eyes. Leorio would have no trouble collecting them. Allowing his funeral repaid the debt of life-giving, then Chrollo would kill Leorio and make off with the eyes. 

Going home empty-handed stood against everything the Spiders once stood for.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i assumed that the water divination test is essentially ren, not quite a hatsu - a hatsu would require direct intention. its a chemical reaction test to help a nen user know what area to work in, basically. 
> 
> chrollo's actual ability is, essentially: finding the potential in people and putting them all together, whether he's stealing abilities for his book, managing his troupe, or in meteor city convincing outsiders to join the Suicide Bomb Cult


	3. EXODUS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i made up a word on accident so what
> 
> sepolian: stems from Sepolia, an actual historical/current neighborhood in athens. simply means "of or pertaining to something/someone outside your city" i indeed pulled off a reference to the armenian genocide in this yaoi  


No one knew who they were. Just another load of trash, a hundred bodies falling off a truck. Most days Chrollo spent toiling the landfills searching for fresh lives, but for mass corpse disposal the soulcatcher must join in. The elders said Chrollo would learn from it, so he strapped on a cracked gas mask and went to work. First they pulled and sorted the bodies from the mess, organizing them into their own pile. Unlike most corpses, they shared certain features, a similar genetic stock. What set them apart, the elders said, was their diminutive stature. Natural, not a sign of nutritional deficiency.

Some were charred to a crisp, some smothered choking on fumes. The design of decay meant they'd been rounded up in a terrified herd and lashed with flames. Blackened lungs crumbled under charred ribs, rotting flesh burst and drained beneath his gloved hands. Crawling maggots led to familiar growling pains. Though Chrollo hungered, manipulators collected the maggots to turn to meal at his side. One offered him a taste in recognition of his status. Chrollo respectfully refused. Only the thought counted. Too many special privileges would get to his head. In exchange he held her hands and let her move on with his blessing.

Further up the corpsehill Machi sat back on her heels, rubbing a bloated stomach. “Is it lunchtime yet?”

“We'll be finished soon," an adult told her. “Patience, Machi.”

Too often Machi rebelled against the elder's rule. Before Chrollo anointment she sliced herself on an irresponsible disposal of barbed wire. “I have some clay,” Chrollo told her. “We can stop at the well on our way back from the pit. You can have a piece.”

“I don't_ like_ clay!” Machi grimaced. “Why can’t we just finish the job and burn them all down?”

“That’s a sin.” A dead child’s hand reached from a burnt black shroud that covered its face. Around his size, near fresh enough to consume. A sinful thought; they all knew the lethality of rotted flesh. “If we mimic the method their souls will never rest.”

“That's right!" Another adult sounded impressed. "They’ll provide good soil for the compost field, too!"

"Imagine a cabbage every _week_, Machi. Wouldn't that be incredible?”

"Hold on, is that -" the adult crouched. A friendly face smiled through goggles. "Aw, of course it’s you. Never stop working, do you, Chrollo? Need a break?”

Chrollo did not. He yanked out the child and trundled down the pile to wait for Machi to come hefting a teenager beyond her size. At the bottom of the hill a cleared wellspace offered brief respite from labor. Here miracles happened; here Chrollo gasped when he realized a heart beat beneath those ragged ribs.

The child _moved._

Scratched and spat as well. Chrollo held it out at a distance, letting his skinny legs and distended belly dangle. Voices rose from the hill to reach the wellspace.

“What the heck?”

“Is the soulcatcher all right?”

"Chrollo, what's going on?"

Chrollo squinted, holding him up against the skies, and shouted: “I can see his soul!”

The child screamed with burnt lungs, twisted until Chrollo dropped him for safety. As soon as he hit the ground he ran screeching until several adults corralled him and scooped him up.

Chrollo thought of him for the rest of the day. After his sorting shift he went to the edge of the steppes to the low valley where hundreds of bales of compressed plastic bottles were stacked. In the depths of the canyons between the bales the elders sat in nightly wisdom. Not two years ago he’d been anointed with ash in this same catacomb. The bales reached to the edge of the cliff; Chrollo stepped out and searched for a place to safely climb down. Though he tread softly plastic creaked beneath his bare feet. Two elders sighted him, and two pairs of hands raised as the will of their souls gently floated him down.

Embarassed, Chrollo blushed. He ought to be able to do that sort of thing for himself. Shame befitted the soulcatcher sometimes.

They led him into an antechamber guarded by the eyes of ancient souls that welcomed Chrollo with grace. Fading sunlight filtered through a hundred colors, dim and kaleidoscopic. Within the child scarfed down a heap of mashed roach meat. He flinched when they entered, chattered something odd. The reflection of his soul burnt the edges of his angular form like a licking flame. The kaleidoscope span; Chrollo hesitated.

Glittering hands encrusted with the carapaces of the singing cicadas pushed him forward. 

“Right now we’re trying to figure out what language he speaks. Would you like to help us, Chrollo?”

Chrollo nodded. He sat before the child properly: crosslegged with open palms facing up, one on each knee. The child's eyes narrowed at his palms. Chrollo stared between them.

“We believe the shock of burning awakened his soul,” another elder explained. Draped in their robes he could hardly tell them apart. As the soulcatcher Chrollo cast back his hood; revealing his face inspired outsiders to trust. “Older than he looks, too. We aren't sure if he's pubescent, but we got to see his teeth when he bit us.” A rasping chuckle. “Spunky. He'll fit in all right.”

Nearly twice as old as Chrollo? Another twist. A familiar beauty lurked in the child's harsh angles, something that sung true to the soul of the city Chrollo represented. Though he had been dressed in grey, burnt remnants of the black shroud still clung to his face. Soon those would heal and Chrollo would cup his cheeks. 

The child muttered a quick sepolian tongue. Spindly hands drew images: knives slashed, throats were wrung, flames burned until he flung out a hand that nearly scratched Chrollo’s eye. Night settled in and the fly-lights turned the chambers into a shadow-puppet display while the elders discussed in low tones.

“Did you speak to the driver?”

“Delivery from the Taltic states. But that’s not Rolgarian. Or even Kreeg... Lukso?”

“He’s got to be Ainemran.”

“Ainemran?” Chrollo glanced back. An elder pushed back their robe just enough to reveal a gleaming gas-mask.

“People without a country. They travel through the Taltic states seeking a place for their tents. All we know about them is that they exist. Nothing’s ever been found in their language. Going by the existing literature they’re likely targets for an ethnic cleansing. Outsiders, same as us all.”

Even from corpses there were things to learn. The elders studied every fragment of history, every tattered text Chrollo liked to rearrange. “Did the Rolgarians kill them?”

“Possibly. There’s many small and struggling nations in the Taltic region. I wonder..."

"Some of them have been trying to unionize. Get recognized by the V6. No wonder the Ainemrans had to go."

"But who _did_ it?" Chrollo asked. 

"Anyone can sweep the streets of trash." A world-weary sigh. "Such terrible things happen beyond the meteor's shadow.” A hand jeweled with crickets patted his head. “Well, Chrollo? Are you going to make friends?”

Chrollo chewed his lip. When he wasted the wellwater the elders were awed. Ceremonies were created for a talent without precedent. Though the water flew apart, he could bring it back together, and when all joined hands under the great meteor’s shadow it would be him who gathered them there. But the dry earth soaked up the water so fast, and the meteor might land any day. Thirst dried up his throat. How his hands itched to hold.

"I cherish his soul," Chrollo told them. "Yes."

The child drew furious circles around his eyes until he gagged. His tiny body curled, hands on his knees, as he vomited a quick stream of bile. An elder handed Chrollo a bottle of water. The child shrank from his offering.

“That’s enough. Let him go.”

The field dropped, guarded eyes turned down. The child glanced at the exit, back to the elders, then back to the exit again before taking off running.

Chrollo took off after him.

Over the next few days more and more Ainemrans showed up: a couple dozen one day, a couple hundred the next. No more survivors, no one to help them communicate. Their sole survivor learned to run as soon as the trucks appeared.

Yet every day, Chrollo got a little closer, and thirst overcame fear. If the child tried to drink at night before purification he'd drink poison. Good thing the soulcatcher slept in the wellspaces and could complete purifications solo.

Every night he set out cups and practiced his first miracle, in whatever wellspace the child ended up nearest. As the haze returned and the city grew shrouded he followed him from landfills to the old concentration camptown. In the wellspace of the retired recycling towers where the residents took shelter for the Floodmoons their souls finally kissed as the twelve stars of the season broke through the clouds. Humidity hung thick, easing the way for the water of their souls to flow together. The day he learned Feitan's name the skies broke. Flash floods rose; floating barges of trash swept by promising carnage.

Safe inside the towers, the residents threw a festival.

Chrollo granted Leorio peace on the journey home. The doctor clung bitterly to silence, refused to even share a meal. Chrollo maintained perfect zetsu. He could not be discovered either. The regrouping Hunters plotted long, night and day; they left Leorio likewise alone. While he slunk in the kitchens at night Chrollo grabbed extras for him. Every time he saw Leorio alone in his grief he crept closer, offering cans of juice or coffee. No beverage managed to tempt him.

By the time they reached Yorknew Chrollo simply sat next to him on the subway. The train took them to an area past the skyscrapers, somewhere grey and bleak and unforgivably urban. The kind of place mafiosos ran rampant. Chrollo examined graffiti in the alley behind the offices while Leorio tested the doors. After a hour Leorio came creeping around the back.

"They won't let me in," he said. "Sorry. I'll try later."

"Strange. Not to their boss's lover?"

Leorio stared at an illegible tag that seemed to imply some sort of sexual activity. "We never were," he mumbled. "I messed everything up."

Interesting. Those who lay with Kurtas deserved death. Knowing Leorio never made it in bed only added to his puzzle. Perhaps if Leorio had reached Kurapika in time he would have known better than to attack Chrollo. But peaceful solutions were impossible with some. Unchangeable pasts haunted all. Chrollo's hand rose idly, reaching for his dark wool suit, until he caught himself and sharply withdrew. "Go around to the back. I'll open the door for you."

"What are you..."

Chrollo smiled. "Don't worry," he told Leorio. "They're just mafia. I know how they work."

Chrollo went in through the fire escape. He put a Ben’s knife to the wrist that held the Stg Sour (55, new money) aimed in his direction, walked downstairs and threw the paralyzed body on an office table in between a trio of mafiosos loudly debating something. Nen fish sailed over his shoulder. He set a hip on the table and relaxed.

They drew their weapons and asked their questions. Chrollo asked his own. Their boss was dead, his friend was MIA, and if they wanted to survive, all they had to do was break a standing order and open the door. In the hideously dire office his fish were the only thing of beauty, arcing through the stuffy air. By the time Chrollo opened the door himself they were all reduced to shreds. He did tell them to open the door.

Leorio didn't say hello, or thank him, or even scream. His eyes were flat as they flicked over the mutilated corpses. Only mafia indeed.

“I'm curious what you did,” Chrollo told him. "That was a _strict_ order."

"Kept calling him drunk. Kept trying to come over. I just - I went too hard." Leorio shoved past him, glancing around the office. "I'm pretty sure the eyes are in the basement."

"How do you know?"

"Um. Shit. Right after Heaven's Arena. I - you were gonna be on _television._" A hand slapped over his mouth. Chrollo pulled it back down. 

"Did you enjoy witnessing my battle?"

"No! I don't like watching people die! I just came over here. Tried to bust down the door... I just wanted..." 

"You were correct to fear me. Anyone with soul in that audience would have run screaming the moment I explained their manner of death. Instead they _watched_." Bloodlust rankled. Not the time to flare, not when Leorio demonstrated wisdom. 

In the basement a shrine of infinite value gleamed against a far wall. The blinding light hurt his eyes. Chrollo waited patiently for Leorio to emote while he squinted at the graven images of the holy virgin. Sitting on a fold-up chair before the eyes, Leorio bowed his head and clutched his knees. He did not pray.

"It _was_ my fault," Leorio mumbled to his ghost. "You _did_ tell me you were dying - if I had just - I don't know. I don't know anymore."

Barbarian ghosts haunted this room. Quelling his fear, Chrollo searched corners to find spiders in their insular cobwebs. If they could still scream with rage the funeral must be lacking. Perhaps the selfish souls of the Kurtas couldn't be satisfied? The existence of ghosts must prove the soul... once again the difference between souls and ghosts, nen and the soul, confused him. Hisoka proved resurrection was possible _and_ faked his tattoo. 

A spider leaped from one wall to another, dragging out a new thread. A new idea sprang to mind.

South of the Federation of Ochima the Lukso province lurked among the Taltic states. Upon arrival they hired a pair of fearsome birds to ride. All seventy-six eyes were stored in a proper biohazard transportation kit in an ice chest that bounced on Leorio's saddle. A two days ride across the grasslands would bring them to the forbidden forest. When trepidation loomed at the horizon Chrollo looked to Leorio: silent, bowed, and dutiful.

They were attacked a quarter mile from the forest, by the shores of a river that once ran red with blood. Chrollo declared his intention before the first strike.

Two in the grass, one in the stream. Book open, Chrollo leapt off his beast and swung a hand towards Leorio’s bird as he fell. Long ago two childrearers conceived page six: an instantaneous protective emitted bubble to be cast on a child in case of emergency. The soulcatcher's unique aura gave it superior range, and so at age fourteen Chrollo received the gift. The shield defended against all attacks while keeping protected targets immobilized and muted. The downside: it was made for children in peacetime. Experienced nen users under protection could break it easily. Once cast Chrollo had no defense of his own until the ability deactivated.

Compensation: only Chrollo knew its true weakness. No penetration unless he allowed it.

Leorio safe, he landed rolling. Panicked beasts tore up swatches of grass, their claws barely skimming his skin. In the stream's ravine the conjurer's whip of water meant to trip Leorio’s bird. Pure water in his hands would not conduct electricity. The stream would. Chrollo shocked him with a single page and a finger.

The immense water pressure concentrated in the whip could shatter a skull. The walls of the ravine protected Chrollo from the explosion. Mud slid under his hands as he heaved himself back up and saw the attack divided exactly as hoped. 

Young fools in the mafia were fans of the Troupe. When the killings at the Nostrade offices were discovered Chrollo expected something in return, and nothing inspired lust and betrayal like the cursed Scarlet Eyes. Finding a few and forming a plan took a night.

His own bird had long since fled. Nothing of value on the bodies unless Leorio wanted a new coat. Chrollo sighed and pulled out the bookmark. During the mess he'd ruined his coat with mud. Leorio gasped when the shield fell.

“You knew those guys were coming,” Leorio said. “You set that all up?”

“A test for us both. Clearly we’ve passed.” The implications of his reaction were disturbing. He tugged off the coat: dark wool, suitable, full length. It would look good on him. This would be a cold night. “We’ll make camp for the night. I must regroup and meditate. At dawn we go into the woods.”

Chrollo cleaned his own coat and bathed in the river while Leorio set up camp. Jagged shadows crept across the glade, stealing the sunset. Red streaks of rich clay streamed down the riverbank. Chrollo dug in a finger for a taste: too rich, too soft, clinging to his throat. When Leorio came down for a quick scrub they both stared.

"That's mud," Leorio said. "You're eating mud."

"I dislike outsiders mocking the traditions of Meteor City," Chrollo told him. "You're a doctor. Don't you know the mineral content of clay?"

"I... do. Actually. That's. Yeah. I don't know what I expected." Depressed starvation would waste Leorio to nothing. Chrollo admired his wiry legs.

"Make sure you eat tonight. I'm the one with something to fear."

Leorio built a small fire and rejected the coat. Chrollo spread his own out to lay down on and offered him a seat, wrapping his naked chest up with the stolen coat. The bar in his pocket at least hadn't been crushed; Chrollo offered him white clay and kaolin studded with crow jerky and crickets. A favorite treat from home. From his pack Leorio pulled out a flask, took the offered seat and a bite.

“Kinda gross."

Mockery of outsiders meant nothing. Chrollo left to meditate in prayer.

One thing Chrollo liked about the outside world was the stars. Back home the haze of burning junk blotted out all but the brightest. Even the clear seasons were marred. In the depths of the forest pine needles would converge into canopy. He wouldn’t be able to pray tomorrow.

With a vaguely sepolian affectation he crossed himself - with _both_ hands - before opening the sun and moon and lifting them to the night sky. Accepting all, embracing all. Any one of those stars might be the meteor. One day it would land and burn these cursed woods to a crisp.

“What are you doing now? Some kinda Satanic ritual?”

Chrollo scowled, leaving his hands up. “Aren’t you Catholic yourself? The Association and the Church work hand in hand. You should understand.”

“Uh… I mean… I sure don’t pray.”

The sun and moon met, folded above his chest. “But do you _believe_?”

“I never really read the Bible?”

“Explain.”

“I’m from Batican State," Leorio admitted. "Of course I went to church every Sunday. And then… I guess, when my friend died, I just quit church and started drinking. I was twelve? Then Cheadle gave me a good opportunity and put me in that school - I mean, that's all over now. I guess. I'm just a wannabe Catholic. Is that enough for you?” Another swig, sloshing. “What’s the answer that doesn’t get me killed?”

“I've been to Batican State. On their decadent rooftops I once erected twelve new gargoyles.”

“Yeah,” Leorio said dryly. "I read the headlines. A bunch of priests all flayed out. That was _you_?"

"The Church protects its own pedophiles," Chrollo said. "You wouldn't have known at the time." Against the shadow of the forest a lone spirit stood wrapped in bandages. Bono hailed from the deep mists of the Zabazon rainforest. Trees held no fear for him. Dropping his hands, Chrollo re-considered his fate and turned back to the fire. From here it looked as if the flames were consuming Leorio.

“Do you fear a meteor, too?”

“Uh… do you?”

“Every day.” Chrollo swept back to his side and sat down. No more resisting this. "How did your friend die?”

“Cancer.”

“Inoperable?”

“Cost too much. This was, uh, we didn't exactly, I dunno. My dad wasn't a priest. Just scrubbed their floors. We didn't live in the city proper.”

“I liked Fiodelf,” Chrollo nodded. “Those crushed under the feet of priests cannot be blamed. I'm a fan of Catholicism. Though claiming Christ as my savior denies my own faith, I always admired him. The destruction of the temples was my favorite part of the New Testament... my first Bible came in tatters." He smiled into the fires, remembering a hooded child piecing together scraps. "In Meteor City, if the healers can’t do it, we give them peace.”

Wood snapped. The breeze carried sparks like fireflies. Leorio shifted, shivered, huddled closer to the fire. “Euthanasia.”

“Even nen can only do so much. And..." The kaleidoscope turned. Frustrated, he eyed Leorio's throat. A drop of amber liquor ran down his neck. "You're confusing. Souls like yours rarely spark my interest.”

Leorio flinched. “Is that why you keep, uh, asking me all these questions?”

When Chrollo picked up his flask he didn’t refuse. A quick sip of lukewarm whiskey warmed better than a stolen coat. His head felt lighter; the ghosts began to swim. “I’m not sure. I’m grieving, too.”

Outsiders naturally repulsed Chrollo. Tonight he fell back on the cloak and asked Leorio if he believed in ghosts. Out here beneath the stars the screeching ghosts in the trees held no danger. The talk grew long and confused, but in the end Chrollo stabbed the grass and fell asleep at Leorio's side utterly fearless.

At dawn Leorio remained. No need for amazement; Leorio knew better than to attempt an escape. In the sober light of dawn there were no offerings of clay, though if asked Chrollo would feed him the red clay from his hands. It would be an interesting experiment before Leorio must die. 

Chrollo wrapped himself in his own coat and led Leorio into the woods. 


	4. THE FALL OF BABYLON

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter describes the massacre. togashi tastefully cut to black and dropped a news clipping, i'm going all in. obvious warnings for: explicit gore, torture, dubcon/noncon, religious fanatic cult leaders doing their thing and having psychotic episodes, children mutilated in front of their parents, suicide, etc.
> 
> this is a really important part of chrollo's past and history that brings out a side i never see quite represented in his main ship fics. i want to know what the kurtas took, exactly, and why it was so important to chrollo that he left a note letting us all know. please note that the author does not condone genocide but chro... certainly does?? so, shit gonna get nasty.

The Troupe struck within days of the first reported sighting of scarlet eye in a Lukso village near the former Rolgarian border.

The elder offered the only contact with the outside world. Uvo and Nobu sought to two warriors to smuggle performance-enhancing drugs. Little Shalnark’s very first needle pierced the back of the elder’s neck.

Barbaric structures offended Chrollo’s eyes. Beneath the lies a great lodge lurked with secrets; a sunken cavern of gnarled tree roots that dangled in spirals. Perhaps contracts were discussed here. Sixteen years ago the Ainemran genocide might have been plotted in this very same place.

Elders seated themselves on elaborately carved stump stools. Children ran until their parents shushed them. Peering in through gaps of roots, Chrollo coached Shalnark through the words. An emergency gathering at sunrise in a place of secrecy. Such a recent sighting must trigger some need to plan escape.

None of them were prepared for battle at this hour. Their mistake.

“Don’t worry,” Chrollo told them through the elder’s tongue and Shalnark’s walkie-talkie. “I’m placing all of you under my protection. If any harm befalls you, I’ll take the damage.”

No one to translate. It didn’t matter. All he needed to cast out a quick protective shield, leaving them unable to speak or interact when the Troupe swept in.

For this work Chrollo cast off his coat. Pakunoda hung it up somewhere safe. A long day demanded no frills: black cargo pants weighed down with the necessities. An assortment of knives, a few clay bars from home, a waterbottle, and coils of rope looped around his neck.

They tossed out the chairs and organized the families into lines, seated on the floor cross legged facing each other. Relations were easy to spot. The elder remained at the head of the room.

The ropes weren’t an attack. As the creator of the bubble shield Chrollo added further defenses. If the warriors tried to break it the troupe stood ready to beat them back, and while dangerously exposed himself none of the barbarians knew the conditions. The moment Chrollo bound one he released them from the shield. At his heels Machi enforced the ropes with her will. Once secured, the rest of the Troupe got to work.

Easy. Efficient. By the time he finished tying up 128 people the eyes were obvious. Only thirty-eight pairs disappointed him. Still workable. Chrollo nibbled on clay and stalked down the lines, observing.

Nobu sat between a mother and child struggling to draw his sword. Crouched behind the mother, Paku frowned at his hesitation. Chrollo saw pink eyes.

“Not yet, Nobu. That child has red eyes, too.”

“Told you that sword wouldn’t work,” Paku said. “I’m using a pocketknife.”

Too many of their abilities could kill in an instant. Nobu was awkward with small, dull blades, but Chrollo laid the child down in the middle of the line and drew a few lines of guidance.

A jagged blade drew a rough line down the child’s fatted belly. Chrollo saw Feitan’s washboard ribs and bloated stomach, the burnt shroud stuck to his skin.

“They’re so healthy,” he mused. The cut opened to the top. Red gave way to yellow webs of fat.

“Lush forest,” Paku said. _“Too_ lush.”

“I can’t believe how lazy the kids are. They dare to claim suffering?” Chrollo dug deeper, sawing through pink muscle until he hit bone. Switching the angle, he carved out panels of flesh.

“They’re so _loud_,” Nobu whined.

Chrollo wiggled a hand beneath a flap of meat, loosening it until he could tear it back. “Healthy lungs.” Exposed ribs rose and fell. A heart thudded within. Impossible. Chrollo glanced up at the mother. “Look at that color. That’s what we’re going for here. It’s strange,” he remarked. “Though she burns and burns, do you see a soul?” He inspected the chest cavity with his knife. Beneath the ribs spongy lobes quivered. “Look at the child’s eyes, Nobu. Don’t tell me that’s enough yet.”

“They look all right to me?”

“Hey, boss!” Uvo called from across the room. “You think I should start with the chick or her boyfriend first?”

“Get Shalnark to help you,” Chrollo shouted above the wails. “The man strikes her first with his own hands.”

"All right!” Shalnark whooped. "Let's do it, Uvo!"

Chrollo cut off the child’s tongue and shoved it down the mothers throat. That choked off both his screams and her soulless moans. “All right, Nobu. They’re ready. Sever the heads.”

Chrollo hummed old prayers as they progressed into the day. He licked his lips when blood spattered there, but did not hunger the cursed flesh of outsiders. Too many eyes failed to turn. Phinks discovered crushing them with his thumbs made the red burn brighter. Chrollo commended his ingenuity. Coltophy painted pictures on flayed skin and organs; Chrollo complimented his art. Even in that cave of shrieking demons he took comfort in the smiles of his Troupe. No one let him down, even though some choked on gorge. The cursed demons drove him to revulsion as well. He held Machi's hand and told her to imagine it as surgical practice.

The day grew hotter. Screams turned to wails, sobs. Some stubborn ones closed their eyes and folded their lips, as if they found salvation in composure.

Stubborn parts could be sliced off, too.

Sweeping down the line, Chrollo stopped to stomp on a neck and check in with Feitan. At night in the wellspaces he used claw at his eyes dreaming of these demons. Now Feitan squatted before a stomach. Legs stretched out on either side of him wept slabs of skin. Posed like this Chrollo could imagine the womb he once emerged from, a name no one would ever know.

If the Kurtas had souls their eyes would be the same color as the blackening crimson puddle Feitan sat in.

“Feitan…”

“Yeah, Boss?” Swift slice flickered, blurring together.

A warm haze brimmed, lapping the mouth of the well. Chrollo staggered and dropped the broken brown-eyed thing. His soul hungered.

“…Do you need any help?”

“Nah.”

Chrollo fell to his knees and leaned over his shoulder to watch him work.

The bandanna was off. Feitan sliced with a smile. Chrollo dropped his head to his shoulder.

“Aren’t you hot in that cloak?” The heat left him dazed. He closed his eyes, nuzzling him. “Or does it make you faster?”

Feitan muttered. Even Chrollo only knew a few choice curses in his mother tongue. “You know what? Maybe you right, boss.” He stripped naked to the waist and returned to his own art.

“Whatever helps you the most,” Chrollo murmured. Water swelled in his throat.

Feitan’s tiny frame no longer starved. Wiry muscle flexed with each stroke. Chrollo caught him around the waist and clutched him to his own bare chest. Stained hands dragged stripes across Feitan’s stomach.

“This massacre is for_ all _of us,” Chrollo whispered. "You are but one facet of the collective soul. The very foundations of Meteor City are at stake tonight." He nuzzled Feitan’s hair. “You understand, right?”

Feitan slowed a stroke long enough for him to reach out and grab his hand. “Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m so happy for you." Another wave of dizziness. The eternal fire of Feitan’s soul burned. Impossible miracles existed. “For all of us. This is our _moment_. Our statement.”

Sweat slicked between them when they drew blood together, two hands on one knife slipping through viscera. His hands dwarfed Feitan’s knuckles. The well of his heart bored deeper, the rising water overflowed. Chrollo pried Feitan’s fingers from the knife and hurled it somewhere. Alone he ripped out a length of intestine to bind them. A hand moved beyond control: lifting it over Feitan’s head to reach his lips. Soft fat greased his lips.

“You like that? How about you give me a little taste?”

Demonic howls spiraled in echoes, shattering the kaleidoscope. Feitain turned in his grasp, licked and sucked up Chrollo’s neck. Chrollo held him off before he reached his mouth, slipping three fingers inside to seize his tongue. There the spider slept. Inked six years ago with Chrollo’s own hands while Feitan nearly chewed his fingers off. Now he contentedly sucked, infantile.

A moment later he spat them out and grabbed Chrollo’s hips where his pants hung low.

Too much clarity in that intent. Feitan couldn’t lick him like that in the first place. Touching Chrollo beyond the belt?

Phinks shouted, “Hey, Feitan, what the -”

Confusion only overwhelmed momentarily. “Feitan. Get off.”

“Ah? Want me to stop now?”

Chrollo shoved him into the corpse and stood up. “Don’t profane the sanctity of this moment. Would you betray the Troupe asking such a thing of me?”

"I'm just kidding!" Feitan cackled. “See, Phinks? No worries here. I take care of the boss, all for the troupe.”

“Augh! Screw you!” A severed head flew. Chrollo ran a gory hand through his hair. Situation resolved. No need for a coin flip.

At the end of it all Chrollo approached the elder still seated at the head, choking on the tongues of his people.

“If I wanted to protect my clan,” Chrollo told him, “I wouldn’t have allowed the sighting in the first place. How did you let it happen?”

Nothing the elder could say to that.

“I don’t care what you have to say for yourself. If you cared for your people we wouldn’t be here.”

The mysterious fire in his eyes had peaked hours ago. Such bright lies induced revulsion. Chrollo sawed his head slowly. Halfway through he tore it off and raised it above his own. A red font cascaded, anointing his soul.

The screams faded. Only the roars echoed in his skull. Every soul in Meteor City sang, voices rising beneath his spirit, tearing through the trees and carrying him to the stars.

The Troupe wasn’t perfectly religious. Allowed; Chrollo asked them to risk their lives in the world outside the meteor’s shadow. They still knew the rules. Bowed heads and a semicircle arrangement pleased him. Legs awaited their head. Chrollo just completed the circle.

He carried the head to the kneeling troupe with a fist in the stump, baptizing them in demon’s blood. He did not stomp it beneath his feet when he dropped it. The eyes still needed extraction.

Feitan arose after their ceremony. Stalking behind Chrollo’s back, he stabbed their message in the elder’s chest.

Somewhere the sun was setting. Exorcising demons meant unholy things. Tonight they would see no stars, and no one could pray to a sky full of leaves.

Machi told him to relax. Franklin and Uvo shattered the walls of the lodge, opening it to the warm air of the forest. Pakunoda retrieved his proper coat. A spiral of wood at the cusp of the cavern welcomed him to rest. Even through the canopy of branches some fading light of dusk leaked through. The woods blurred. Sometimes the head needed to breathe.

Some of the Troupe confessed they’d snatched a few cases of beer in the nearby town. Let the dirty work turn into a party. Shalnark and Coltophy were discussed, but Franklin allowed them a sip for a special occasion. The boy was twelve, Coltophy wasn’t much older. No one would lead them to harm. They only wanted to feel included.

While the Troupe prepared the eyes for shipping Uvo handed him a beer with a flashlight between his teeth, off to bash down the remaining structures of the Kurta.

Chrollo stared into the shadows of the forest.

When Uvo came back he paused him with an empty can. “Can I get another?”

“Sure, boss! You come back inside soon, all right?” Strong and faithful as ever. Sweet Uvo who loved as he fought.

Inside were corpses to mutilate. Their blood would be pooled in their thighs. Congealed yet? Blue and staining the meat? “Sure thing.” Chrollo smiled. “Send Feitan with it?”

Feitan quietly handed him his drink. Chrollo tipped it back and drank. Too much in one go choked him.

“Wow,” Feitan said. “So, what you want this time?”

“There’s something in the woods. We need to investigate.”

They walked into the pitch blackness of woods. Sounds pulsed. Insects and strange rustles and screams, the thud of a monstrous heartbeat. If Feitan heard what Chrollo heard he did not say. Chrollo ordered him to stop at the base of a tree. No moon shone; they sensed by touch and aura. Dark souls in the night could find each other.

Chrollo took off his coat and knelt, presenting Feitan his bare back. Blood had dried black. None of it was his own. “Can you feel me?”

A finger skipped up his spine. “Oh? What’s this?”

“Do you have your tools?”

“Of course.”

Shadows didn’t scream. No allowance for madness. “Flagellate me.”

“Hm…" Feitan slid a nail up his spine. “I dunno, boss. Too dark to see.”

“Don’t make me beg for this.”

“Aww.” A hand caressed Chrollo’s hair, awakening the nerves. “But I like to hear it, you know?”

If necessary, fine. “Please,” Chrollo told him. “You’re the only one who can. Feitan -” his voice wouldn’t crack. “Feitan. I need you. If you’ve ever believed in me, prove it. I - I want it. I rely on you for this.”

“No, I believe you. Just too holy for you right now. Relax, boss.” The hand seized, twisting. Feitan tipped back his head. Neck bared, Chrollo waited while he stepped around to stand in front, twisting his hair. “Me, I don't know much about meteors,” he said. "Just you.”

Another can cracked. In his cloak all along? Room-temperature liquid flowed down Chrollo’s throat. Though he gurgled and foamed Feitan kept pouring. At least it softened the screams.

Would Feitan slit his throat like a sacrificial beast? Would he drain the blood properly?

Clothing shifted. The air grew warmer.

“No,” Chrollo said. “What are you doing? This is past my line.”

“Why? Because I look like some kid?” Feitan’s laugh rang out. He leaned in and licked the beer spilled on Chrollo’s cheeks. “You think I’m sweet little baby? I’m thirty-one, dumbass. Not Shalnark.”

“I know that,” Chrollo snapped. “But this is grotesque. The head can’t show any leg extra -”

"You kill these bastards for me. _My_ revenge tonight."

"_You_ are a part of the spider. A facet of the whole. This is for -"

"Look at you. I see you right now." Feitan's tongue slid past his teeth, wrapping around his own. When Chrollo moaned Feitan bit. "_Shalnark_’s your smart little baby. Coltophy, your dirty rag baby? They kill other babies for you.” Chrollo sensed the heat rising. Feitan’s tongue slid past his teeth, invading. “So fucking sexy. Nothing wrong where the legs can’t see, yeah? Not when the head is blind.”

“No.” Chrollo shook. “Stop. You’re scaring me.”

“You want me to hurt you?”

“This isn’t what I meant!”

“Too bad.” Feitan backed off. Not for long. Something else rubbed at his cheeks.

“Feitan, don’t you dare -!”

Feitan’s cock cut him off. Chrollo gagged. To his own surprise he didn't open his book. Nothing to fight. Feitan blazed brighter when his teeth scraped, slamming the back of his throat.

Hard to breathe. Hard to think. Quiet, though. The slick sounds from his throat, the pound of Feitan’s erratic rhythm. Panting breaths and cricket chirps. Chrollo’s own heartbeat. Feitan’s chuckle, rasping.

“Fuck, boss. You think when Shalnark starts jacking it he's gonna think of you? Maybe he does already.” His raw cock tasted like blood and piss. Bile roiled and rose. “Nah. He wouldn’t tell you about it. Loves Daddy too much.”

Chrollo’s eyes squeezed shut. Or perhaps not. Hard to tell in utter darkness. Tears fell as Feitan’s thrusts grew savager. Feitan dragged his hair down his face and thumbed his tears.

“Crying? Cute. It’s okay. You got drunk. I made you do it. See? Still clean.”

Yes. Now Chrollo understood. Purity in the foulest of acts.

Of course Feitan was right. A moment of self-doubt would kill the spider. Would Phinks slay him if he ever hurt the Troupe? What would Pakunoda do? Feitan wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. Feitan believed in him absolutely. Every word he spoke Chrollo taught him.

A flood burst in his mouth; Chrollo relaxed his throat and drank it all while Feitan cursed in his own tongue, shivering. When his release ended he patted Chrollo on the head, gently bit his lips. Kissed him. “Swallowed it all, eh? Smart boy.”

Chrollo coughed in reply. Turning his head, he vomited a slurry of semen and beer.

“Poor boss,” Feitan crooned. “Don’t worry about nothing. I got you.”

Somehow Chrollo ended up with bark digging into his back, sighing in relief as Feitan swallowed him whole. After they lay together for a moment to regroup.

Chrollo whispered, “You’re the only thing I need right now.”

“Nobody tells you you’re wrong. Fucking _nobody_.” Feitan hissed. “Doubt yourself again, I kill you for it. You get off easy this time.”

“...Can we go back to the troupe?”

On the way back Chrollo drunkenly stumbled over branches while Feitan held his hand. The work was complete. A festival of dancing light awaited. Some of the Troupe had electric lanterns, some stuck to candles. As long as Chrollo could see their smiles. He tripped on the elder’s head. Everyone laughed. Phinks caught him, Machi gave him water, Chrollo grabbed another beer. He cupped Phinks cheeks and drew him in for a chaste kiss on the forehead.

“I want you all,” he said. “I need _all_ of you tonight.”

“Bring it on in, guys!” Phinks laughed. “That's an order!”

Tonight he wanted everything: to hold them all, bless them all, to hold hands in the shadow of the meteor. The circle broken, Chrollo fell in the midst of combined arms. Pakunoda blushed when he blessed her. Uvo let him weep tears of happiness on his broad chest. Even Machi accepted a kiss. Somehow Nobu tugged him into some bizarre sepolian dance that let him hold Shalnark and Coltophy's hands as they stepped on his feet. Feitan’s throaty chuckle provided the music. Franklin guided him, gripping his arms.

Infinite happiness.

Chrollo woke up with a throbbing skull and the heat of Colthophy on his chest. Surrounding bloated corpses buzzed with flies. Chrollo stretched, spreading out his hands, palms raised and open.

The meteor’s shadow offered safety to whosoever chose to stand beneath it. All those who refused could burn.

True to Chrollo's fears, the forest lurked with terrors. Accursed spirits watched from between the leaves. Feral birds like the one they rode tore scars through the woods. Beneath the canopy the air grew stuffy and electric, too humid for his coat. Chrollo kept it on. The woods were unsafe. A storm was coming.

By the time they reached the ruins of the village the skies broke.

He directed Leorio to the site of the massacre. Whether the bodies had been taken away by authorities or rejoined with the forest, Chrollo didn’t know. Just an earthy cave with a roof of rattling roots. Recent collapse shrunk it to half its previous side.

“Hurry,” he told Leorio. “The eyes are watching.”

Screeching, too, louder than the pound of rain. Chrollo grabbed a ski hat from a pocket and yanked it over his head, shrunk in his feathers. Water from the skies promised destruction as readily here as it did in Meteor City.

He couldn’t watch Leorio mourn over demonic eyes again. Chrollo lit a quick candle and strode around seeking the spirits of the troupe. Instead he found leftover trash in the corners, odd carvings in the roots. A broken CD player, a forgotten windbreaker, a flashlight he didn't recognize with a cracked bulb.

No matter what outsiders did, all they left for Chrollo was garbage. Of course this place must be popular with teens and fools camping out for a thrill. Perhaps they made up their own ghost stories about the troupe here. No sense of the sacred; no sense of history. Couldn't _they_ hear the screams?

The cruelest letdown and the worst possible confirmation. Chrollo imagined a party of spirits, a chance to honor their memories in a festival of blood. The spirits he longed for remained at the bottom of the sea in the sunken wreckage of the Black Whale. Faith, hope, and love led to hallucinations. New visions were only memories: Shalnark’s corpse eaten by crows. Coltophy's bloodied mat of hair. Machi’s head disposed of in a crawlspace between decks, an independent thinker to the last. Phink's dangling arm, Franklin's severed fingers, Nobu impaled on his own sword and the bloodied scraps of Feitan’s bandanna. Bono's torn holes and Shizuku rendered to shreds. Every cup shattered, every shard sinking into the ocean.

Chrollo fell to the earth in despair.

Twice now he’d led his people to their own destruction. No requiem, no atonement, nothing to find in this damp cave. The well of his soul dried to barren bone, stretching to the center of the earth. Nothing but fire and brimstone awaited him there. 

What was his first mistake? Dirt crumbled between his fingers as his mind raced. 

_“Soulcatcher, what have you done?”_

_"Is this an equivalent exchange to you?"_

Soulcatcher, miracle worker, Jesus with his twelve disciples. What a joke. The spider never quite reached thirteen legs. St. Peter knew better to pretend, chose to smother in soil rather than imitate the savior.

_“How is this any different from what we already do? I'll decide what's sin or not._ _” Eyes like jewels, each worth millions. The mafia would destroy themselves fighting over them. The total value might just be enough to stop the trucks from coming. "Isn't that my right? My responsibility?"_

The eyes pulsed with warmth at the edge of his _en_. Panic rose to bloodlust, but he could not turn to face them. He extracted his hands and scraped dirt out from under his nails. What was taking Leorio so long? Chrollo could recite the last rites of the Catholics if required. He turned from the pile of trash and saw the eyes still glowing.

Leorio was gone.

Chrollo dashed out of the cave. Running up a trunk, he leaped through the canopy from branch to curling branch. A trail of destruction showed Leorio’s hasty escape route. Finding him crashing through the woods on his bird took less than two minutes.

Thunder roared_. “LEORIO!” _

“Shit!” Leorio twisted in the saddle. The bird flapped uselessly, terrified to fly in the storm. “Keep the eyes! Just let me go!”

“You swore to bury them!" 

"And then what?! Let you kill me right after?"

He knew. Dammit. "I never said that," he snapped. "Just get back here and do it. I can't -" Couldn't _what_? A leaf smacked him the face. "I need you for this!"

"Why?"

"Just trust me!"

_"No! _Freaking - psycho murderer, you're full of it! Scared of a meteor, hah!” A shaky laugh rode the wind. "_You're_ the meteor!"

The fool didn't begin to understand the occult significance of his words. The bird stumbled in roots, throwing Leorio into a tree. Chrollo slipped on a wet patch of moss. They crashed in a tangled heap of man and feathers and claws. 

Chrollo rolled off the bird and saw its neck twisted. One horrible clawed leg stood up, another scraped though his side. His coat took most of the damage. Chrollo heaved aside the corpse and examined Leorio, crushed in a spiraled nest of roots.

No escape from his wrath. All Chrollo's sins proved deadly. He turned Leorio over to examine.

Not dead. Just a good bash in the head. Blood trickled down from his hairline. Chrollo dropped him and rolled back against the base of a tree. Tilted back his head to catch raindrops. Years ago in a similar position Feitan showed him who he was. Naked bloodlust fell blind to betrayal.

Only one way to atone.

Self-immolation. He had the power in his hands. A single bomb would take Leorio with him and end their combined misery. The soulcatcher of Meteor City, killed with their most sacred ability.

Then what? Become a martyr and live on in their souls? Or else destroy them utterly? The elder dedicated years to this before handing it off to Chrollo. He imagined he'd be able to return the sun and moon, even set the condition to gain it. How selfish. Chrollo was always more than a spider, more than a head. The faith and history of his people lived in him, beat his heart for him, fleshed the skin over his bones. If he couldn't bear the sun and moon, it must be passed on. But to whom? He bore this responsibility solely for killing Hisoka. That same reckless pursuit killed his troupe. Chaos swarmed in this forest of hell. Another jagged streak of lightning tormented his vision.

To find his first mistake... 

Chrollo closed his eyes and reflected on history.

When the airstrike hit the concentration camp only a few prisoners survived. They cried out to each other in the darkness, crawling through rubble and corpses. They grasped hands so as not to lose each other as they struggled into the light. Trauma awakened their auras, and the lights of their souls guided them. They had no name for the bomb that destroyed them. By the time they emerged they were completely dependent on each other. 

This was ancient history, from long before the first dump trucks came rolling across the desert. As the soulcatcher Chrollo learned this earlier than most children, in order to translate the parable to the lowest common denominator.

Nightmares of the meteor kept him running through the landfill. Flinging open fridges, crawling under crushed automobiles, hovering at the edge of the wastes waiting for the next truck to crest the horizon. Any one of those precious souls he found could be taken by the mafia someday. If the environment didn't kill them first.

Was it a mistake to rage? A mistake to leave Meteor City in the first place? He abandoned his duties to tear a path through the outside world, put on the costumes of the Catholics without sincerity. Not even the scarlet eyes stopped the trucks from coming, and still they burned with an unnameable curse.

Chrollo opened his eyes. Grey woods wept. Feitan's hands showed him one truth. He felt for Leorio’s; cold and wet. Could they show him another truth?

Patches of stormy sky showed between circles of canopy. If he had looked up that night he might have seen stars. The next bolt of lightning threw every spiral into sharp contrast. It all made sense now.  
  
In Meteor City every cup was broken. Chipped mugs with broken handles tore open hands. Working residents wore gloves. While drinking they filled cups wrapped in rags, sealed cracks with pitch or congealed paint. The soulcatcher had a soul that could fill every outstretched begging cup, the only possible way to contain a soul so large.

One broken cup left. If Chrollo poured his heart into it, maybe someday it could hold him in return. Chrollo sat up and pulled Leorio into his lap. He knew some techniques of the healers, at least. Light transmutation of the blood helped it congeal. He touched Leorio's head wound, then the gash in his own side. 

Back in the new Kakin they were still learning art of nen-based healing. No place for these techniques in the outside world. Chrollo cupped his hands to Leorio’s cheeks and pressed his lips to his forehead, kissing the blood and rain. Then he picked up Leorio’s limp hands and kissed them as well.

Leorio opened his eyes dazed. When Chrollo smiled they rolled back in his head and shut again.

He grabbed the remaining luggage from the bird and carried Leorio back to the cave, wrapping his broken cup in the stolen coat. The packs he considered extraneous contained another first aid kit, the Scarlet Cross's Field Medicine Manual, and a journal. He read the labels on everything, dabbed antiseptic and placed gauze and a wrap on Leorio's head. Embossed on the cover of the journal was Leodarna's human heart. Chrollo wondered.

Not much else beyond some spare clothes, food, the half-empty flask, an electric lantern and batteries. Chrollo peeled his coat from his own wound, wrapped it in the light of the lantern, and stole a long-sleeved shirt too big for him. The discarded windbreaker fit him just fine. Plucking through rest of the trash turned up an empty Naglene bottle he set outside to fill with rain and a few beetles to eat.

New life in the cave of his sins. His earlier experiment before they entered the woods proved he could cast Leorio under protection, even with the same ability he used on the Kurtas. Miracles were indeed possible. Chrollo settled with Leorio’s head in his lap, stroking his hair.

“Mmf,” Leorio mumbled, waking up again. “Wh- what’s going on?”

“You saved my life,” Chrollo told him. “All we need to do is weather the storm for the night. You’re not safe to travel right now.” 

Leorio glanced at their joined hands, then into Chrollo’s eyes. In the lamplight Chrollo could see now they were deep brown, not quite black. “The hell…?”

“I thought I was going to kill you, too. That was my plan this whole time." He shushed Leorio with a finger to his lips. "Don't worry, I've given you my blessing. Meteor City owes you twice over now. You _must_ come home. Relieve us of my curse of hate.”

Leorio rolled over face-first in his lap and moaned. “Oh, god.”

“You don’t know the extent of my sin,” Chrollo continued. “But doesn’t Christ offer forgiveness to every sinner who accepts him?” He stroked the back of his hair. “I’ve made a new choice.”

“Why me?”

“Fate's funny, isn't it? Why did you choose to let me live?”

“I don't know." Chrollo felt that bone-weary sigh in his marrow. “Fuck the Hippolytic Oath. I'm tired.”

“Me too. But we're going home soon. All the answers can be found in Meteor City." Chrollo rolled him back over, lifted his head to bless him again. After kissing his forehead he kissed his eyes shut as well. "Go to sleep."

Leorio twitched. Chrollo covered him in his old coat and laid him to rest. At last the cave fell silent, all but for the gentle patter of rain as the storm traveled elsewhere. Chrollo likewise passed out in peace, one arm thrown over his newfound cup.


	5. LAW AND JUDGMENT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. you can google the HxH world map and see that it makes perfect sense that i set Meteor City in Fake Australia 
> 
> 2\. pretty much the entire purpose of this fic was to drag chro's ass back home because im fascinated with meteor city

Erotic jazz flowed from a piano nestled in a corner of the airship bar. Chrollo might have requested something classical. Tonight he kept to himself, though, sipping seltzer as he read some sepolian comic at the far end of an inky counter still gleaming from the bartender’s last swipe. At his left windows revealed stars over a black sea as they flew to the northern side of the Begerosse Union, a ring of coastal states surrounding the vast Backback desert.

A glass broke. Chrollo startled. The bartender swept up the mess and moved to dump it in a trashcan. “Excuse me? Sir? Can you please put that in a box?”

“Huh?”

Chrollo cleared his throat and set down his manga. “Put that broken glass in a box. Tape it shut.”

The bartender scoffed. "Yeah, sure. Whatever." 

“It’ll tear through the bag,” he said softly. “It could cut someone’s hands.” His fingers itched. A simple soulsweep and he could show the bartender just how dangerous broken glass was. Cause an incident he’d rather avoid.

The bartender did not hear. Another, paying, customer called his attention. Chrollo chewed the inside of his mouth and stared back at his book, focus lost. The two new presences on the ship lingered at the edge of his senses: a sickly sweet surge of bloodlust that rivaled his own and something purple and impenetrable. If he hadn’t been sleeping during the last stopover he would've left.

Hisoka and Illumi ignored him all day. Toying with him, torturing him. Now _en_ prickled through the crowded bar, deliberately seeking him out. Chrollo controlled his zetsu.

They elbowed their way through the crowd to the bar. Illumi stared at Chrollo’s corner while Hisoka nonchalantly ordered a pair of beers. “Check out ten o’clock," he said, nudging Illumi. “Cutie in the black sweater. What do you say?”

“Don’t start.”

“Ah? Not interested? I'd say he looks like a fun time.” He brought both their drinks along, sweeping through the drunks to sidle up to Chrollo. “_You_ look too good to be lonely tonight. May I buy you a drink?”

Bloodlust broke zetsu. "This is no arena,” Chrollo said quietly.

“You’re right. It isn’t." Illumi snatched his beer and gulped down half in one sip. "This tastes strange. Hisoka, stop."

"Stop what?”

"I don’t have time for a family incident. This chase of yours is getting ridiculous. We just happened to board the same airship. There’s bigger things at stake."

Chrollo took Illumi in. As vague and emotionless as ever. Someone might say there was indeed a resemblance. “...Why are you going to Begerrosé?”

“Vacation,” Hisoka said.

“Business,” Illumi replied.

“The union is home to the purest white beaches in the world,” Hisoka grinned, licking foam off his lips. “The wildest surfing, the deadliest wildlife, not to mention the most _precious _little beach boys and girls…”

“The Grand Reefs,” Illumi said suddenly. “I won’t be snorkeling, of course.”

The Begerossé Union possessed two major industries. Beyond the tourist resorts residents toiled to ship all the world’s garbage inland across the desert. An ugly place, where the children of servants and truck drivers could be found selling their bodies to the wealthy elites.

“The Grand Reefs are being destroyed by pollution," Chrollo said. "Toxic runoff from factories lands in the ocean.”

“I thought they just dumped it all in Meteor City,” Hisoka muttered, slumping on the bar.

“Soon it will be nothing more than a skeleton,” Illumi said. “None of us will ever see their beauty.”

“I’d like to see them completely bleached. A desert in the ocean sounds so symbolic, doesn't it?"

"How morbid."

“Why are _you_ going to Begerossé, Chrollo?” Auras met, congealed. Hisoka trailed a line down Chrollo’s forearm. “Illumi’s so excited to snorkel. Don’t you want to come with us?”

“Hisoka. Quit flirting. He doesn’t want it.”

“What? I’m not starting a fight. Look, we’re all here, we’re all bored. Let’s go back to the room, get bottle service, see where the night takes us.” The sound he made when he licked his lips sent a shiver down Chrollo’s spine. “What’s the story between you two, anyways?”

“I’m an old friend of Kikyou Zoldyck,” Chrollo said simply. “She’s from Meteor City.”

“Chrollo is a religious leader in his community,” Illumi explained. “As such he must retain a certain sense of _purity_.” Illumi flicked back a long strand of hair. He did not smile or smirk. Nothing revealed his subtle mockery. “ Of course, we Zoldycks aren’t particularly religious. I just respect my mother’s heritage.”

“Good.” Chrollo looked back to his comic and turned a page.

“My mother is the matriarch of our family. Everything she does is for us,” Illumi added. “Naturally if she wishes to speak to some friends back home, it’s allowed. It’s complicated. I wouldn’t expect anyone who isn’t a Zoldyck to understand.”

Chrollo wouldn’t expect anyone not from Meteor City to understand, either. The next page turned so fast it tore. “Is this about Kalluto?”

“What about Kalluto?”

“Do you not trust the troupe with him?”

“Of course I do. It’s only…” Illumi sighed. “Mother was right to leave Meteor City so young. I hope Kalluto doesn’t end up with asthma."

_Mother_ was also correct that the outside world was no place to raise a child. Until she got tangled in Silva’s fine hair and abandoned her faith. "Kalluto's fine."

"Really? That's good to hear. Have you seen him recently?"

"Of course not. I’d lead this clown of yours straight to him."

Illumi hummed. "I'm not Hisoka's keeper."

Chrollo sighed and pulled out his phone. Phink’s last photo was of Kalluto napping in an abandoned vehicle somewhere in the landfill wastes, smiling with Feitan’s slender hand draped around his neck. The sight of Feitan protecting the wayward child brought tears to his eyes. Showing something so personal to Illumi cut deeply.

Though he had to admit it was personal to both, for the same reasons. Mutual respect despite their differences kept the careful balance. He only wondered just how much Illumi knew of the truth. Hisoka had enough sense to lean off while Chrollo wordlessly showed Illumi his phone screen, amusing himself by ordering a trio of cocktails named _Sex on the Beach. _

Illumi blinked at the photo. “When was this sent?”

“Last week. They’re not in Meteor City anymore. I -” Chrollo bit back the truth. Traveling to Meteor City was risky enough. “I don’t know where they are.”

The cocktails arrived with glamorous flourishes from the bartender. Hisoka handed them colorful drinks topped with a straw and an umbrella on a toothpick sharp enough to prick a finger.

“You don’t know where he is,” Illumi said dubiously. “He could be drugged in that photo.”

“Aren’t you all trained to resist any kind of drug?” Chrollo withdrew his phone. “We’ve respected your rules. He hasn’t been tattooed.”

“Hasn’t he -”

“Yes, he’s been asking. No, he hasn’t gotten one. I think Machi got him some temporary tattoos. He was very upset. Doesn’t Kalluto ever text _you_?”

“Of course he does,” Illumi said, and returned to his drink.

Chrollo tried a careful sip, recoiling from the sweetness. There were more photos in his roll: Kalluto awake and grumpily sipping a soda. Shizuku vacuuming up a video game controller while Nobunaga scrambled, Feitan showing off a page in his artbook of aesthetic Japponese teenagers in electric chairs, Machi irritated and blocking the camera’s view with her hand, Bono rolling a joint with Franklin using a recent Bucksy print as a table.

“Go ahead. See if you make any headway. I don’t care.” Illumi sighed. “I’m going back to our room to find out if I can actually get drunk.”

“Ugh." Hisoka scowled, torn between them both. “Right, and _I’m_ the crazy one. Consider yourself lucky, Chrollo. My only question is: who’s _really_ getting lucky tonight?” His grin bared his teeth. “Catch you later.”

Good. That was all Chrollo wanted, some peace and quiet. He scrolled through his phone and ordered another seltzer. As his cocktail melted he stared blankly out the window before trying another sip. When the bar closed and the bartender shooed him off he left it half-finished.

Chrollo caught the bartender as he leaned out a window in the back kitchen to steal a smoke. Right before a sign that warned against smoking on airships. Chrollo shoved him out the window and retrieved his coat from beneath an oven. When the kid mopping the floors spotted him changing and tried to sound an alarm Chrollo shoved him in a boiling deep fryer. The smell as he bubbled in fat induced a lust only satisfied by dropping a few cockroaches in along with it.

Through the night he continued to work, breaking locks and sliding through vents like a wraith. Sleeping tourists, drunk tourists, tourists struggling to stay awake and keep the party going. He stuffed his coat with their cash, draped whatever jewelry didn't fit his pockets around his neck. He did not touch Illumi and Hisoka’s room, but the room across the hall he painted in the blood of some wealthy debutante puking champagne in the toilet.

Couldn't they sense his bloodlust? Chrollo flushed the toilet and threw the two halves of the corpse in the bathtub before flopping down on the marble floor, suddenly exhausted. He’d have to leave soon; the door remained half-open. Dragging the body around left a streak anyone with eyes would notice. A chase sounded fun. He’d wash his coat later.

Chrollo scooted to the bathroom door, planted both hands on the floor and peeked outside.

A tongue of bungee gum lapped his wrists in a vise and stuck him to the floor. Hisoka kicked the door the rest of the way open, twirling a strand of gum. Freshly showered, hair loose, face clear of makeup.

"Using your nen is technically fighting,” Chrollo said. His bound wrists dragged him on a slip-and-slide of blood out of the bathroom to rest at Hisoka’s feet.

“We both knew I wasn’t going to let you off _that_ easy. But really, Chrollo? I daresay I'm insulted at this point.” He rested a foot on Chrollo’s head. “Even Illumi is furious. Your bloodlust alone could sink this ship.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong. I only came here to have a good time. Just like you.”

“I know where Meteor City is, silly. Relax, I couldn't be less interested in following you to that dump.” Hisoka dug in his heel, chuckling. "Incredible. Look at you. Decked out in your spoils, soaked in blood, still claiming your hands are clean. I love it." His heel clicked safely back on the floor. Hisoka crouched before him and caught his face up in razor-sharp nails. “Give me a kiss?”

Chrollo spat in his face.

“Getting a lot of mixed signals here.” Fingers flexed; nails drew red lines. “Where did we go wrong, Chrollo?”

“The moment you took off that tattoo,” Chrollo snapped.

“Oh, come on. You told me you couldn’t sleep with anyone in the troupe. Wouldn’t want to sully your purity or cause any fights, remember?” Hisoka pointed up, Chrollo hit the ceiling and slammed back down facefirst into an elegant Kreegic rug.

“Even earlier, then,” he said, spitting out fibers. “When you rejected _my_ tattoo. On an airship much like this one. Machi, Shizuku, and I. First you tried to organize an orgy, then you showed me your back.” Hisoka’s bloodlust terrified him from the start. Too tenacious, too slippery, and much too bold. "And then you said -"

“Sorry if getting a stick-n-poke in a dumpster sounded like a sure way to get syphilis, _boss_.”

Chrollo wriggled in his bonds. Though he could summon his book, another idea occurred. “If I suck you off will you leave me alone?”

“...What?”

“That’s what you want, right? No fight, just some fun. Let’s get it over with.”

“Chrollo,” Hisoka murmured, digging his nails deeper, “I want _so_ much more than that.” A drop of blood ran down Chrollo’s chin. Hisoka abruptly let go to lick the blood off his fingernail. “Give me an inch; what’s stopping me from taking a mile?”

“Where's Illumi?”

“In the shower for at least another hour. Look, I know you like clear communication, so how’s this?” Gum twisted as Hisoka reeled. Chrollo struggled up on his knees. “I’d fuck you until you screamed yourself raw. Until you broke your fingernails clawing at the floor. I’d bash -” another drop - “your _head_ -” yet another “-into the _wall_ until that pretty tattoo split open and I’d _still_ keep fucking your corpse.”

Chrollo shuddered. Blood ran down his chin.

“Aw, am I scaring you? Or do you only want me more? It’s so hard to tell!” Hisoka pouted and tossed him up and out, twisted him up and down and around until Chrollo felt dizzy. “Are you playing hard to get? Or do you really not want me? Why aren’t you fighting back? There's no way you’re completely incapacitated. You might be drunk, but you'd never let your boundaries down that far without the troupe. I can only conclude… could it be?” At last he flung Chrollo flat on his back. “You want this just as bad as I do.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“I would never dare to insult the iconic cult leader of Meteor City.” Fingers curled inwards. Chrollo slid back to Hisoka’s feet on a streak of blood, coat flying open. "God, you look good like this. We could have done this normally, Chrollo. But after so long…"

"I've made my offer. Take it or leave it."

"Not going to resist? Can’t you at least try to make it fun for me?"

"I don't owe you a thing."

Hisoka dropped the gum and straddled his hips. "You don't believe that," he accused, grinding. "Are you asking me to rape you?"

Chrollo grinned. “What do I care? Go ahead, do what you want. Only makes me all the more determined to kill you. I’ve been feeling lonely, Hisoka. I miss the troupe. If I could call it all off…”

“_Liar_.”

“You don’t know a thing about me. You never went to Meteor City.”

“I see plenty. Your bloodlust speaks my language, Chrollo, whether you admit it or not. Here. I'll do you a favor, just this once."

The weight on his hips lifted briefly as Hisoka undid his sash and yanked down his pants. Chrollo averted his eyes, rage boiling over like some blackened stew left too long. When Hisoka guided his cock between his lips he let it hang on his tongue.

Hisoka slapped his cheek. "I'm not doing all the work here, darling."

Chrollo fumed. He didn't want to work; he didn't want this at all. Just some peace and quiet.

"I hope you fight better than you fuck," Hisoka muttered, giving a shallow thrust. "Do you need to be choked?"

_Not by you._

"Hisoka!"

Illumi appeared in an elegant damask bathrobe. Hisoka didn’t move, but held up submissive hands. "Look, this isn't what it -"

"I told you to leave him alone."

"He wanted it!"

Illumi raised a hand holding a needle. “It’s four in the morning. If my cover gets blown -”

Hisoka rolled his eyes. "Right, right, you’re working. Just when things were getting good.” He gave Chrollo a final slap before pulling out and standing up. “Oh, well. You were right. He can’t even suck a cock properly. Like sticking it in a dead five year old.”

“Illumi. I apologize if I’ve ruined your night,” Chrollo said stiffly.

"No, I must offer my apologies," Illumi said. "I was washing my hair and lost track of the time." Clearly it took ages to get that mass brushed and gleaming. Yet it rose and flared when he said lowly, "Just remember you’re no Zoldyck. If you retaliate against Kalluto for this, I'll kill you."

"This is between me and Hisoka," Chrollo said, stunned. "Who do you think I am? Kalluto’s a child, he’s -”

“You’re very good at killing children.”

Chrollo stood up and wrapped his coat back around himself, tightening the closures. He should have brought a shirt.

“Oh, good,” Hisoka said dryly. “Our holy man is back.”

At dawn the airship landed to screams and chaos. Chrollo paid a dump truck driver with a few diamond chains and fell asleep in the passenger seat. When the truck stopped to refuel he leaned against the diesel pump and dialed a number he knew by heart.

When Kikyou hopped on a dump truck heading out of Meteor City at the tender age of sixteen she knew she was special. As she slew her way through the mafiosos she took particular pleasure in a few, and one lucky day the obvious accident occurred.

A young woman with no resources in the cruel world couldn’t raise a child alone, but Kikyou knew her child would be as blessed as her. On November 15th she gave birth behind a Clucky's Chicken in southeast Bostown, not two hours after her last kill.

After a quick nurse she performed a simple hatsu on the infant to awaken his nen. She wrapped him tenderly in a blanket and sealed him along with a letter to the elders inside a sturdy box with perforated holes, and tossed the box right in the Clucky's dumpster.

From the moment he arrived in Meteor City Chrollo was marked as special. Though before he turned two Kikyou met Silva and found a new family, letters still showed up in the trash. Growing up Chrollo had little means to return contact, but he scanned her flowery lines and frothy prose for clues.

Whatever led her to abandon her faith, it was clear her mistake was leaving Meteor City alone. Chrollo learned that much, at least.

“It’s me,” he told the butler. “Put my mother on the phone.”

“_Me_? Am I supposed to know -”

“Chrollo Lucilfer of the Phantom Troupe. You know exactly who I am. If you don’t get her right now -”

“Please hold, sir.”

Far across the desert a sandstorm covered the horizon. The Zoldyck hold music seemed designed to infuriate. Chrollo threw more jenny to the driver.

Kikyou loved her secrets. She especially loved it when her precious children broke her heart. She'd put her foot down for Chrollo before, though, and right now too much was at stake to leave to Illumi's whims. If only for Kalluto's sake...

Chrollo hung up before she answered. The only thing that could stop Hisoka waited in Meteor City.

On the way out from the forest Chrollo fed Leorio the red clay from his own hands. Leorio was too concussed to resist.

They caught the first airship to the union. They skipped the Begerossan beaches to hitch a ride on an Ochiman dump truck. With enough jenny they could get the luxury seat in the back of the cab on a mattress propped up on milk crates. Leorio insisted he felt fine; Chrollo insisted on tending to him. As he tilted water bottles to Leorio's lips Chrollo told him a story about a dictator who sought to hide his horrific treatment of prisoners from the eyes of the newly-forming union.

“Yeah." Leorio shoved the old feathered coat further up under his head. “Everyone knows about that.”

Chrollo drew him upright and tried to make the coat as comfortable a pillow as possible. No arrangement seemed to please Leorio yet. “What do they teach about Meteor City in schools?”

“Can you just - leave it - okay, that looks good." Leorio flopped back down. "In public school? It’s just a dump site. I didn’t know people lived there until I went to college. Guess I had some dumb ideas.”

“Of what?”

A small, tired voice replied: “Charity, I guess.”

"Hah!” The driver slapped the wheel. “Never heard that one before. Got yourself a young'un, mate?”

Chrollo couldn't judge the drivers for their jobs, either. The trucks were the only means of transport. If only the driver would quit butting in. “What do you mean, charity?”

“I don’t know… free healthcare for the poor and all that. Didn’t seem like you guys had much.”

“That’s sweet,” the driver interrupted. “He'll be all right. Rio, right? You're gonna love that fucking dump. The place reeks. When’s the EPA gonna get up in arms, s'what I wanna know."

"It doesn’t reek.”

"That’s still not my name."

"These people, I tell ya, Rio. Gone full troppo out in the Backback." He turned up the AC to blasting. "This job can blow out my ass. Gotta love the hitchhikers, am I right? Oi, local boy. What's your name again?"

"Chrollo Lucilfer," Chrollo replied stiffly.

"Ah, so you’re that motherfucker!" He failed to elaborate what sort of motherfucker. "Bloody oath, Rio. What'd you get into, eh?"

"I'm going back to sleep," Leorio announced.

At the halfway point when they stopped to refuel Chrollo led Leorio by the hand around the truck stop asking him if he needed anything. More ice for the eyes, fresh water, food that wasn’t clay and a cell phone charger Leorio seemed hesitant to ask for.

The truck let them off at the outer edge of the northernmost landfills at dawn. From here they could look to the left and see where the plastic catacombs towered below the steppes, or else look to the right and see the dim remains of the old overseer’s castle. The catacombs glistened in the dawn; distant trucks drew dusty furrows in the landscape.

Leorio took it all in slowly, squinting towards the catacombs. “That’s all just plastic?”

“Those bales were made with the intent of being recycled,” Chrollo told him. “Unfortunately, we could use recycling techniques to forge weapons and perhaps turn profits of our own. If I had been there I would’ve retaliated against Jappon with a hundred bombers. I guess the towers provide shelter, though.”

Directly before them, of course, the landfills stretched to the horizon. Accidental chemical fires drifted black smoke skyward between clouds of swarming flies. The perfect bouquet of burning plastic not yet sorted, spilled oil leaking from barrels, slabs of rubber that melted in the heat, food too poisoned to eat, and decaying human flesh hit like a slap on a gust of wind. Chrollo's lungs ached sweetly in response.

“Damn,” Leorio said, grimacing. “That’s… a lot.”

“All the world’s garbage is delivered here. You knew this already.” He extended a hand. “Let’s go.”

Walking through the wastes required constant use of _gyo_. As a child Chrollo only knew the eyes of his soul were open. Half a mile in they found two souls: one with a dangling umbilical cord covered in slime and crusted cheese sauce, the other a bloody-mouthed toddler suckling the blanket that swaddled it. Chrollo took the first and handed Leorio the latter.

“Note how her aura nodes are already open.” Chrollo scraped off cheese sauce under his nail. The infant wailed. “The trauma of the journey triggers some innate survival instinct.” Nen that lingered after death... was it possible some already died once?

Leorio staggered, gingerly cradling the toddler. “I don’t know how else they’re alive.”

Nothing new to see. In the riots and the chaos of the sinking ship every soul awakened as well. As they hiked through the piles of trash Leorio stumbled a few times. Quickly enough he realized following Chrollo meant a stable path. A silly, childish notion stirred as Chrollo turned his head to check on him. Leorio only took the offered hand once, when he stepped in a mass of rot and sunk to his knees.

Three more infants along the way lay smothered in filthy plastic bags that stank of a river. Those Chrollo slung over Leorio’s broad shoulders already weighed down with his packs. Leorio’s back bowed.

In the first wellspace they came across a dozen children assembled for purification, untrained auras drifting and mixing. A presiding adult recognized Chrollo on sight; Chrollo did not know her name. Not every resident chose one. He only saw a pleasant red-tinged aura of enhancement and green eyes that reminded him of Lily.

Traditionally upon homecoming Chrollo announced his return to all instantaneously with his miracle. All wells were connected to the same groundwater reserve, and with his current strength he could fill every cup in every wellspace at once. She ordered the children to part ways. Chrollo approached a simple pit guarded by low walls of clay and bent aluminum. Recent art thefts paid for steel grates secured by lock and key to prevent any fresh outsider from drinking at night. Still Chrollo saw the dry abyss beyond.

“Light a signal fire if you want," he told her. “I can’t do it right now.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I’ve sinned,” he said simply. “We bear fresh bodies. Two for the healers, three for the compost pit. Are the elders assembled yet?”

“They're in the camptown today,” she said. “Chrollo, we’ve been waiting - will you at least -?”

She handed him a pellet of clay. Chrollo shook his head and tilted it towards Leorio. “Thank you, but he can take your blessing for now.”

Leorio’s toddler stirred in his arms. The resident stood on her toes to slip the pellet between his lips. “Thanks? Um, what’s your name?”

“I refused mine,” she smiled. “I’m not the soulcatcher, am I? Just a fragment of the complete soul.” A child began hacking up a lung. She crouched to pat his back.

A flyer clung to the walls of the well. Chrollo shifted his infant and plucked off a drawing of a resident with a sign-up sheet below. A torn newspaper clipping described a would-be traveler slain by drunken tourists in the coastal states. Anyone who worked at his side in his segment who wished to volunteer wrote down names or identifying marks. The lines of requirement were full. Chrollo stuffed it in his windbreaker.

Two miles brought them to the remains of the concentration camp, a town of low, squat buildings. In the central wellspace they dropped off the children to healers and workers on their way to the compost pits before meeting the elders in the cafeteria.

After the airstrike the cafeteria had a gaping hole in the roof. Residents replaced it with a mosaic of shattered and reformed colored plastic. Many roofs were repaired in this way; Chrollo hadn’t seen a real stained glass window until he stepped into a church in Batican State.

Inside the elders pored over salvaged newspapers spread across low tables. A few gathered around stolen laptops and phones, hooked up to solar generators and one special gas-powered unit that relied on extravagant gifts for the truck drivers. The moment they entered the elders stopped their work.

Twenty-five encrusted gasmasks looked up. Chrollo held out both hands, palms up.

“I haven’t announced myself yet,” he told them. “First, I need your judgment.”

They sat down where they were, drawing out overturned buckets and three-legged chairs. Chrollo pointed Leorio to a chair and sat on his knees. He delivered a full account of his deeds, starting from his battle with Hisoka. “I don’t know the casualty count,” he admitted halfway through. “But -”

“A hundred and fifty,” Leorio murmured. “I read the news.”

“Hm. Too few. The two hundredth floor of the bloodsport arena was destroyed, at least. Only the wealthiest predators make it that far,” Chrollo added. “No victims were harmed. Until…"

“Until?”

“Hisoka made himself a puppet. Shalnark and Kortopi paid the price. And then… I had a plan for our reunion. Take a vacation and return with treasures. Things changed.” A tear landed on stained newspaper. “In rage and hubris I sought revenge and destroyed the entire troupe. The spider is no more, and I led every one of them to their deaths. I committed sins of individuality spurred by hatred that stained my soul.”

An elder hummed. “What happened to Hisoka?”

“Illumi killed him. Kikyou’s son. He took Kalluto with him.” Chrollo rubbed an eye.

“We see.”

“I’m still trying to work some things out. I don’t plan on leaving home anytime soon. For now I’ll return to my usual duties. As for my sins... “ Chrollo laid his palms flat open on the table in submission. “I leave my judgement in your hands.”

Deep silence fell. Chrollo studied their masks. At the funeral of the one who’d given him the sun and moon he saw the truth behind them for the first time: mutilated lips, flayed cheeks, noses cut to empty holes. Those who survived to their age abandoned both name and identity. Only through such sacrifice could they absorb themselves entirely into the collective devoted solely to preserving knowledge, to guide the next generation.

_Ten_ didn’t slow the aging process entirely. Someday Chrollo would join their ranks. The thought no longer terrified him.

“You did what you could,” one finally said.

“We find no sin in you.”

“The soulcatcher determines both sin and punishment. We do not presume.”

“When you say your 'duties', do you speak as Chrollo or the soulcatcher?”

“Both are one and the same. “Chrollo pulled out the bomber advertisement. "As for this…"

“The mourners are waiting. Deliver your blessing in the wellspace, and they will assemble.”

Also expected. Admitting Chrollo’s failures shook too many foundations built too recently. “I haven’t returned empty handed, at least.” He nudged Leorio. “State your name, purpose, and what you bring to our table.”

Leorio stared silently at the mosaic. Chrollo touched his wrist, brought him back down with an encouraging smile.

“Leorio Paladiknight,” he said shuffling his feet. “I, um. I _was_ a med student. A doctor at the new nation of Kakin, actually. I’m just here because... he wants me to be? Can I plug my phone in?”

The elders nodded. Leorio awkwardly got up and plugged his phone into a laptop in complete silence.

"Um. Thanks, guys." He bowed. Returned to his seat.

“He’s a healer,” Chrollo said for him. “Did you know the healers of new Kakin are experimenting with our traditional techniques?”

“Such activities are illegal in the outside world.”

“They’re like us in some respects. I taught them our methods of water purification. I believe Leorio will find our healers interesting, and his knowledge of sepolian methods may even be of help. Not to mention...” He eyed Leorio’s aura, a soft blue-green that pulsed to its own quiet beat. “I see no darkness in his soul,” he finished.

“Well. You heard it.” Leorio picked up the small styrofoam box of eyes and set it on the table. “And... I’ve got these.”

Even through the ice chest the glow emanated. Chrollo looked away. “The eyes carry a curse of hatred left by the dead,” he informed them. “At least, that’s what I suspect. I’d like to keep them under observation and carry out an investigation, but I don’t know any exorcist who could remove a death curse,” he admitted. “Whatever the case, I can’t touch the eyes myself.”

"Why not?"

“Yeah,” Leorio added. “I’d _really_ like to know why you need me to carry them.”

Chrollo stared straight ahead, unseeing. "Leorio once loved a Kurta. As for me, my own hatred is the same. Maybe even worse." A painful admission. Shame befitted him sometimes.

“Lift your head. You are still the son of Meteor City.”

“If you’re ready, there is one -”

“Not yet. The ceremony first,” another cut in. “He’s still in mourning. In time he will return fully.”

“Outsider. Leorio, right?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

The elders spread their hands. “We thank you for bringing him home. Meteor City accepts you. Go in peace.”

Leorio left quickly, forgetting his phone. Chrollo snatched it for him.

The camptown was a settlement of rest. For the injured, the adults raising children communally, and whatever rotating troop of workers ended up here to rest tired bodies and meditate. In every wellspace across Meteor City some small industry took place; here cups were repaired, crows hung out to dry, and rags were woven to robes. While Chrollo performed his miracle residents handed Leorio a wing of jerky and a travel bottle sealed in duct tape. Every gift symbolized both acceptance and expectance. 

From the edge of the camptown the compost pits spread. Always a work in progress. Chrollo spoke to the residents dumping corpses and rotted food wastes, watching others toil as they tilled the rotting mass.

"Last years floods eroded more than we hoped," a resident told him, cycling her hands as her soul turned the soil beneath them. "Still we have about an acre of arable land for this year.” She cleared her throat, spat a streak of phlegm.

"How many heads have been planted?"

"Ten thousand heads of cabbage. Simoni is experimenting with peppers, and another hopes for potatoes. The patch is deep enough for root vegetables."

"Peppers?" Chrollo nodded. "That would be good. More flavor than ash. As for potatoes..."

"The leaves will wither too quick. They’d have to be mixed with clay to consume."

“Try carrots instead?”

“We have no seeds. But outsiders throw out potatoes once they start to grow.” 

“I don’t know anything about gardening,” Leorio mumbled, perhaps to himself. “Nothing but _cabbages_?”

Chrollo and the resident contemplated the spread and stench. The arable patch covered half an acre. If the desert winds didn't sweep away so much, if the floods didn't erode or turn fields to rot… "How long has your segment been working this area?"

"Since seeding. Still early. We depart for the clay pits in two weeks."

In the clay pits they would turn to mining and pottery, as well as making Chrollo’s favorite bars. "Thank you for your report."

A vibrant purple soul that could remove particulates from the water extended hands for a blessing. This time Leorio did not ask for a name.

A new smoke signal burned behind them, signalling the arrival of the mourners. The ceremony took place in the chapel of the clinic. Long ago prisoners were experimented on and forcibly indoctrinated in this building; now it stood as a place of healing and spirituality. Chrollo gave Leorio leave to explore the rest of the clinic rather than witness such a private ceremony.

Ragged forms knelt in a darkened room. Here the roof was repaired with tacked-together sheets of tarp. A single shaft of light illuminated a line down the center. No door remained for Chrollo to shut behind him. He strode in a silhouette and bade them all to look up at his palms. One sigil blazed white, the other flat black in perfect and unmistakable duality. 

In olden days they used makeshift bombs assembled from scrap. New magic changed the method, though the ceremony remained the same.

"This is the last blessing I can give you," he recited. "I send you beyond the meteor’s shadow."

They would never be elders. Their individuality rippled in a hundred colors, like the kaleidoscope of the plastic mosaic. Chrollo saw the most beautiful souls in existence, ready to lay down their lives for one another.

"You are willing? You are ready?"

"We are the children of those that survived the meteor," they replied. "We have joined our hands and united our souls. Though we walk to our death, our souls will live on. The right hand of darkness leads us all."

Chrollo had two bottles prepared, one filled with water and another with ash. He walked among them now, anointing each with a smeared cross to the forehead.

A new presence lingered at the doorway. Leorio's lanky shadow lingering. Let him see.

"You will land as the sparks of the meteor,” Chrollo told them. “We will remember your sacrifice. And what shall we do should the outsiders retaliate with bombs of their own?"

"We rise. We rebuild. We live again."

"This is our final message.” Passion drove his voice deeper, stronger. "This is the only way the outsiders will hear us. As they delivered unto us the first meteor, so we deliver our own unto them. You may rise."

They formed in single file to approach him. Every eye wept, every forehead met. Chrollo kissed them where he'd christened them, lips smearing sweat and ash. They would hold one hand behind their back when meeting their victim.

Leorio didn’t linger long. A healer murmured, ushered him away before Chrollo completed the ceremony. As the bombers exited he handed each one a final wad of jenny for the truck drivers. Then he went to a corner of the chapel and slumped on the floor with Leorio’s phone.

Only two new conversations sent yesterday morning. He must have sent them during the quick naps Chrollo took on the ride.

_Kurapika died on the Black Whale. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you sooner._

He skimmed the replies and found:

_I'm fine. I'm still in New Kakin. Hey, maybe you kids can come and find me someday! LOL just kidding!_

There were other messages, too. To Cheadle Leorio had only a series of apologetic and confused messages. To a 'Mom' and 'Dad' he was happy on the new continent. Kurapika’s ghost lingered in a single final message:

_I’m all out of time._

The camera roll held the smiling faces of the children of new Kakin.

Chrollo pocketed the phone and sought his Bibles. No residents held private homes or personal property, but Chrollo kept a few stashes around the city. Between crumbling bricks he dug up a children’s illustrated Bible he’d once treasured, a lyrical King Jhong V translation, his tattered New Testament. He settled in the wellspace with his back against the well to read. The second round of purifiers let him be.

Christ’s return came at the expense of great trial and tribulation. The Earth would burn, the seas would rise. Salvation demanded destruction. Less than two hundred thousand could reach Paradise.

Some said the book of Revelation was nothing more than the ravings of a madman in the desert. Promises of carnage once inspired him. Did he imagine the Troupe as the vultures, taking their fill from the sea of blood? Or as the angels, sounding the horns of chaos? Outside the city of life lurked dogs and sorcerers, murderers and idolaters.

And yet. _He who thirsts, let him come. He who desires, let him take the water of life freely._

At dusk the residents gathered wherever they were to share meals and sleep together. Small fires burned against the chill of the desert at night. Tonight the camptown residents prepared soup in massive oil barrels.

Chrollo accepted a bowl of broth thickened by maggot meal filled with slices of roasted roach thorax and shredded cardboard. Coffee grounds, crushed egg shells, and a few pellets of clay floated within. The serving resident added two precious slices of cabbage and a sprinkle of ash to top it off with a flourish.

Two slices of cabbage seemed like luxury. Chrollo never demanded a festival. The residents celebrated of their own free will. He sipped and made his way through the crowd, noting a few jugs of precious rotwine, accepting smiles of gratitude.

Leorio sat in the midst of an animated group of healers sipping rotwine. Chrollo approached silently from behind and slipped the phone over his shoulder.

"You left this," he said.

"Thanks! I was gonna let it charge all -" Leorio turned and saw who held it. "Ah. Yeah. Thanks."

"Chrollo!” The healers looked up in devotion. “Will you join us?"

“You’ve brought us a gift of an outsider,” another said. “We’d be honored to eat with you.”

The healers made space. Chrollo sat down on dry earth, careful not to spill his soup or sit too close to Leorio, and refused the rotwine.

"Your doctor says we need more vegetables," a healer at Leorio's left said. "Taiste put two whole cabbages in the pot!"

"I’m sorry, Gesurgy," Leorio sighed. "I didn't mean to offend."

"Hey, buddy, it’s no problem. It takes a while for outsiders to understand." Gesurgy shook the jug of rotwine. “Not much left. Let’s all share the dregs, eh? Unless...”

"Don’t let me stop you. Two cabbages..." Chrollo shook his head. "What is this, a festival?”

"We should have had one!” Another healer tilted back her cup. “How was the ceremony, anyways? Poor Hamath."

"Beautiful," Chrollo said. "Hamath’s spirit truly blessed us all. How did the outsider do today?"

Leorio did not meet Chrollo's eyes. The healers considered him a welcome asset, though he still needed training. Dutiful, though, and enthusiastic. The conversation devolved into the language of healers, the internal mechanisms of nen in the body. Leorio even added a few thoughts of his own sometimes.

“So, Leorio?” Chrollo asked finally. “What do you think?”

"The soup is pretty good," Leorio admitted. "So is this… what is it, pruno? The kids we found made it. Japril and Merstina here showed me some interesting stuff. That's it, I guess. I mean -” he laughed, wiping the back of his neck awkwardly. “It’s pretty wild how you guys survive here! It’s interesting. I’m… yeah. Excited to be here!”

Dinner passed pleasantly. After the residents rinsed their bowls in the wellspace and retired where they were, scattered. Leorio remained in the wellspace with the healers before the doors of the clinic.

Chrollo did not sleep. At home he thought he could find comfort in his believers. How? He knew almost none of their names. While their souls shimmered in color Chrollo’s bloodlust was flat as a night sky choked in haze. He chose a perch on top of the clinic, brooding over the Old Testament. If the New Testament confused him, perhaps the old one held answers. He used to imagine himself Gideon, the judge who regained his faith and led his people to victory over the Midianites. He had three hundred; Chrollo only had eight.

Scribbled in the margins with faded ink were notes wrote over two decades ago. Once it amused him to write the rules of Meteor City in the archaic style. _Thou shalt not raise thy hand against thy fellow resident. Thou shalt not claim treasures for thyself. Draw the outsider near unto thee, lest they burn in the flames._

_Remember thy fellow outsiders, for we were once outsiders ourselves._

Something rustled in the wellspace. Chrollo peered over the edge of the roof. Leorio rose from a pile of sleeping bodies, tiptoeing towards the clinic doors. He would make a terrible thief. Chrollo dropped the book and jumped down before him.

“Jesus -” Leorio slapped his mouth shut. “Fucking _Christ_,” he whispered.

“Keep it down. And don't take that name in vain.” Chrollo peered at the bodies. No one else stirred. “Tell me what you _really_ think.”

“Of what?”

“Today you saw how we live.” He grabbed Leorio’s hands and dragged him down to eye level while he rattled like a firefly in a bottle. “Our agriculture, our healing, even our most sacred ceremony. A rare privilege for an outsider.”

"I don't know what to think! I - " Leorio paused. Inhaled slow, exhaled even slower. "There's so many people. _So _many. Working constantly to the bone. The healers were great. Super nice. But the way they talked about you…"

"Our faith is all we have to go on,” Chrollo said. “What's your opinion as a doctor?"

"You eat cardboard and drink rotted crap. They're all malnourished. Dehydrated. Everyone’s got a smoker’s cough. I swear I saw a guy who had to be clinically dead. For nen users, I’d expect them to at least _look_ healthier."

"We don’t learn nen the way you do. Abilities are developed collectively and used for the most basic tasks. Only elders develop specialized abilities, and most of them end up in my hands." Chrollo dropped his hands and summoned his book, uncaring if Leorio witnessed his ability. "You’ve seen this shield before. I used it on you _and _the Kurtas. And this one, this -” he flipped past the first twenty pages, through his entire book to the most recent. The sun and the moon. “You judge me as an individual, but tell me: what are _we_ doing wrong?"

"How am I supposed to know when I just got here!"

The book vanished. “I don’t expect you to.”

Leorio swore under his breath. “So what are you even trying to ask?”

"Now that you’ve seen what I’ve tried to protect, will you still call me a sinner?"

"Yes!"

"If I apologized to you for killing your friend and forcing you to mutilate him, would it mean anything?"

"Would you actually regret it?" Leorio straightened, glaring down at him in miserable wrath. "No, no, I’m done with twenty questions. This time_ I'm _gonna ask you something. Do you seriously believe those eyes are cursed or are you just too delusional to admit you _do _regret what you've done?"

Chrollo touched his forehead. Where a Meteor City resident might say the soul slept. Where the Galactic Matron said the third eye hid. The holy symbol he'd tattooed in his youth seemed more a mark of Cain. "We both know what I am," he said gently. "Tell me it again?"

Leorio shook his head. “You’re just a murderer."

_Yes_. There was the truth he craved. "No one else would tell me this." Chrollo swayed on his feet, tilted into his shadow. The smell of Meteor City and the filth of humanity enveloped him. "Where are you going now?"

Leorio hastily backed away. "I… wanted to check in on those kids again. Is that all right with you? _Soulcatcher?_"__

“Don't let me stop you.”

After Leorio went inside Chrollo silently trailed after.

The clinic was several stories of crumbling stairs and broken walls, held together with ancient nen and salvaged material. Spikes of rebar jutted at odd angles. Strings of fireflies swayed over drapes of tarp. The ill slept glowing with enchantments. Only a few sleep-ridden moans stirred the silence. Leorio used his phone as a flashlight.

On the second floor infants slumbered on repaired mattresses, coated in bubbles of aura that glowed in swirls of green and pink made to simulate a womb. Chrollo’s protective shield was an advanced interpretation of a similar concept. Not that he knew exactly how it worked in this case.

Leorio picked his way down a hall crammed with infants, not bothering to check every room. Somehow remembered exactly where the ones they found this morning were laid.

“It’s a miracle," he murmured.

Existence itself was the miracle. Someday Leorio would understand. He knelt over them, hands extended. The cool light in his hands pulsed. Chrollo ducked under a drape to watch.

Though his zetsu remained solid, Leorio raised his voice and said, "I know you're there, creep."

Chrollo went to him and crouched opposite the child, captivated by soothing curls of turquoise beneath Leorio's spread fingers. Beneath his own hovering hands auras met and recoiled, repelled each other. Swallowing, Chrollo pulled back his aura, concentrating in his core, and lowered his hands until his bare fingertips nearly brushed Leorio's knuckles.

Nothing happened. Only a few ripples stirred. Chrollo closed his eyes and drew them inward and up, looked beyond the barren well to see a gentle rain falling on the compost fields until sprouts emerged, until his soul brimmed over with water that ran clear.

“Please -”

Chrollo withdrew his hands. He looked at Leorio's tight face and vowed patience. For as long as it took, no matter what he must do -

“Just stop looking at me like that.”

No place for a killer in a space of healing. Fair enough. Chrollo left and found rest among his fellow residents. In the morning he went scouting for new souls and left Leorio to the healers. This integration seemed beyond the soulcatcher’s ability.

At the eastern edges of the wastes he waited for the trucks. The old overseer's palace cast a flat shadow across the desert. A few columns of smoke drifted into the sky from deep within the towers.

The palace held ancient curses. He asked the nearest toiling pair of residents what might dare to live within.

“Some strange group of outsiders showed up a while ago,” one replied. Together with their partner they summoned small pieces of metal, stripped screws and bent nails from rotted wood. “They've been keeping to themselves for the most part."

"How do they drink?"

"We aren't sure,” their partner replied. “Some of us left bottles at the doorstep. At night we've seen them plucking corpses. Probably the only food they're getting.”

“Their leader keeps himself shrouded." Screws floated into their wheelbarrow, tinkling. “We told him he must wait for you. His early attempts to engage us didn't quite work out."

So the outsider knew him and his role, even as he took. "What did he do?"

"Simple sepolian offerings. Jenny, candy, cigarettes." The resident coughed in a chuckle. "That last one didn't land."

"Very funny." Chrollo stuck his hands in his pockets, fingers twitching to summon his book. "Where is he from?"

"From NGL. Refugees from the Chimera Ant crisis." The resident shook his head in wonder. "The Troupe slew the last ants to take residence there. Perhaps that's why they've made no trouble for us yet."

"Or else he's preparing a proper tribute for our hospitality," he said. "What do the elders think?"

The residents shrugged, indistinguishable in their protective robes and headgear. "Waiting on you, soulcatcher."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter: will gyro be able to spread some tzaziki sauce? will leorio ever be able to admit Chrollo Did Nothing Wrong? only time will tell.


	6. TEMPLE DE/CONSTRUCTION

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i LOVE the book of lamentations. i just love the bible. just like chrollo.

**I AM THE MAN THAT HAS SEEN AFFLICTION BY THE ROD OF HIS WRATH**

_ “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” _

_ Behind the lattice screen sat a shriveled priest. Glints of the gold that crowned his head shone through pinpricks. “Confess your sins unto me, my child.” _

_ “Today I walked from the holy streets into the shadows of Fiodelf. There I saw the destitution of those who dust these pews. I walked further, saw the camps of those who build our temples. I saw them beat illiterate children in forced labor. I saw the diseases of poverty, and I saw the priests walk by with turned faces. When I offered alms, they called me sinner. And I wondered, Father. I felt doubt in my heart.” _

_ “Suffering is the will of the Lord, my child. To doubt is only natural. Satan the adversary lays traps for the faithful in this evil world, but remember: the Lord helps those who help themselves, my child.” _

_ “Oh, Father, it’s not the faith I doubt.” _

**THE HANDS OF THE PITIFUL WOMEN HAVE SODDEN THEIR OWN CHILDREN;**  
**THEY WERE THEIR MEAT IN THE DESTRUCTION**

A dead black screen hid the windows to his mother’s soul. Against the spindly clawing arms of the pines she seemed a displaced goddess. Chrollo ducked his head and studied her pristine slippers, gliding soundlessly over the squelching leaf litter and loam. He slid the heel of one boot over the other attempting to clean it, spreading clotted blood and rotted vegetation.

A delicate hand reached; Kikyou withdrew a clump of pine needles from his hair. “You want me to _leave_ with you? Why would I ever do that?”

Chrollo winced. A stone sank in his soul. The deep slashes in his back and across his chest ebbed blood. He clutched himself tighter, willing them to close. “Because I came for you? All my friends are waiting back in Dendora. You can join us.” Though Chrollo hadn’t told them his true mission, they would accept Kikyou without question. “Be free again. Come home again.”

“Chrollo, I _am_ home.”

“You’re confused.” Branches reached out to choke, to snare. Chrollo glared into that dead screen. “You are a soul of Meteor City. How can you see the meteor coming, trapped in these false shadows?” The abundant green of Dendora defied reality.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re lost here, Kikyou,” he persisted. “Severed from our collective soul. But there’s still hope for you. My friends were curious about the outside world, too, but they haven’t lost -”

“Oh, don’t start with all that religious nonsense!” Her voice drew up on a shrill curve. “Chrollo, the Zoldycks are so wealthy they never have to look at trash again. My children receive the greatest medical treatment and the finest training money can buy. When we kill, we don’t need to destroy ourselves to do it.” Her lips curved. “Look at me, child. This dress is worth a hundred lives. Compared to this, what does Meteor City have to offer?”

Her gown drooped in waterfalls of black velvet that ended in foaming white lace. Further up an elegant cape draped her shoulders, crowned with feathers that embraced a slender neck. Beautiful clothes, unrotted and whole. Violet lips stood stark against perfect skin.

In Meteor City every life represented a treasure beyond monetary value. In Meteor City those dead to the outside world found new life. He saw his own dim reflection in her screen and wondered how to explain the simple promise: at the end of it all remained faith, hope, and love.

“You made a promise when you left home, didn’t you?” Chrollo asked. “So did I.”

“What on earth - one moment.” A light sprang to life; Kikyou held a hand to her ear and launched into one-sided conversation. “Yes? Yes, Mike took care of the intruder. What? Out for my afternoon constitutional, of course!”

She made a vague shooing motion with one hand. The intruder lowered his eyes.

“No - No, I - _especially_ in this condition. A strong body bears strong fruit! Would you rather I lounge about begging for footrubs and ice cream? Oh, darling… what on earth are you talking about? That’s what butlers are for. Goodness, what sort of household have I been running if no one can survive without my input for five minutes! Enjoy your lunch, love. I’ll see you soon.” The light flickered, stretched into a thin red line. Kikyou dropped her hand and it fell dead again. “Men! So bothersome. Where was I - oh yes, sweetling. What, ah, what was _your _promise?”

“To find treasures in the outside world and send them home,” Chrollo said timidly. “To make Meteor City a better place for us all.” To keep his friends from being shunned. To find the lost souls that cried out in this wilderness. To spread the meteor's shadow enough to encompass all.

“I suppose blood doesn’t show on black,” Kikyou muttered, and pulled Chrollo into a quick hug. “I did find one treasure, didn’t I? _You_ were the greatest gift I could give.”

Powerful sepolian perfumes clogged his nostrils. She squeezed hard enough to crush his ribs. A new lash of pain made him bite his tongue. Before he could struggle she pulled back, tsking.

“As for the rest,” she said briskly, brushing off her skirts, “be serious. This world is an ugly place, and Meteor City is just as dreary a dump as the rest. The filth, the stench, that hokey old religion - didn’t you leave for a better life yourself? To escape the doom and gloom?”

“Myself?” Chrollo flinched. “What about the rest of us?”

“Goodness, that smell. You’re a resident through and through.” Kikyou ignored his questions, glancing back through the trees. “I can’t take you back to the mansion. Ask the gatekeepers to treat your wounds, why don’t you? Maybe take a bath?”

The men who laughed pityingly when Chrollo showed them his letter. Said they knew every Zoldyck child, not that Chrollo ever claimed to _be_ one. When the beast attacked they watched with bored eyes.

“I - look, Chrollo - you’re a strong boy, aren’t you? Let’s see, you must be sixteen by now? A little small, but your aura is nearly as dark as Illumi’s! Don’t look so bitter. Show me your hatsu.”

Outsiders and residents used different terms for the same things. Even their diagrams showed every type of nen user connected, each individual facet of the collective soul. A complete soul like Chrollo was a rarity, a reflection of the greater truth on this mortal plane. Each page in his book offered safety; with the Begerossan mafia he’d experimented and discovered how pages bled letters upon death.

Chrollo manifested his book, yet unnamed with only a handprint on his front. When Kikyou reached a curious hand he snatched it back.

“It’s sacred,” he snapped. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me. I sat in a wellspace once, didn’t I?”

“Why do you hide your soul?” The book disappeared. “I think you’re too scared to come back. Did the Zoldycks set the dog on you, too?” He dug his fingertips in the fabric of his sweater, opening the gashes. 

“Of course not! I’m not hiding anything, Chrollo. I simply fell in love with a Zoldyck.” She startled at something, clutched her pregnant belly. Reproduction was rare in a city that gained and lost so many lives daily; to Chrollo, her pregnant belly looked like a tumor. “I found my own treasure out here. Love. Security. A family I’d protect with my life. Most residents who leave end up homeless and dead on the streets. Don’t you understand?”

“That's why I brought my friends with me.”

“You’re asking me to abandon my family. Would you betray your own?” Something flashed across the screen too quick to see. An afterimage swayed in Chrollo’s vision like a sunspot. “Chrollo, you shouldn’t have come here.”

“Then you shouldn’t have sent me letters.”

“I wanted you to have something to look forward to beyond that awful place!” She turned her back to him, yanked off her visor and bowed her head. One hand clutched her forehead. “Ugh, not another migraine. Chrollo, just - wait a minute -”

The trees were more patient than Chrollo. He left the way he came, focusing his aura into his feet and leaping to the top of the gate. This time he failed to roll, jarring his knees. The fortifications of his soul barely protected him from breaking his neck.

Chrollo sat up and brushed damp dust from his cheeks. Grime caked under his nails. He thought of her clean perfumed skin and remembered the wrinkle in her nose. No wonder she failed to see his holy light.

The tour bus he rode up here departed hours ago. Chrollo took off his hooded sweater to tear his shirt into strips, wrapped his wounds and braced his knees. Not too cold; only the blood loss left him shivering. By the time he made it down the long and winding road from the mountain cloudless skies hinted towards purple and the remains of his sweater encrusted him.

Dendora settled in for the night. Lamps flicked on in houses, families called in children and the smell of cooked food floated through the air. In a dusky marketplace outsiders carved space for him, glancing at his still-smarting tattoo, muttering at the smell. When he staggered no one offered him help. When he fell they averted their eyes. He stared at a couple who stared at him, unmet expectations dying in the space between. Their tiny souls leaked away at a steady rate.

In Meteor City no one passed an injured resident without offering to help, sharing their burden, leading them to the healers. A tear leaked from his eye he scrubbed away. No catacombs to welcome him, no healing hands. Would Christ have lashed through the marketplace with fury, or witnessed to the sinners? Ought they be shunned in the desert, or did they simply not know their crime? Turning from the lights, he staggered down an alley. Faint wails sounded from a dumpster. A sobbing young woman slumped against it.

“Is that your child?” he asked.

“It was,” she muttered.

“Don’t weep. There’s a place beyond here where their soul will live on.”

“Oh, shut up. I’ve had it with you Catholics.” She glared, rubbing her nose. “Ew, what’s with that tattoo?”

Chrollo put a hand over his forehead.

“So what, a condom broke! That damn baby cost me my _job._ You know what it’s like being pregnant? ‘Course you don't. All I wanted was a day off to rest my swollen feet and I got fired on the spot. Can't even find a new job, and that baby just keeps crying and shitting and making it all worse. Is this what your precious Jesus wants for us?”

“I didn’t mean heaven,” Chrollo told her. “I meant Meteor City.”

“_Meteor City?_ Don’t go getting all morbid on me.” An ugly sound tore out of her throat. She dug among her clothes, pulled out a cigarette. “Maybe I will take a trip to Meteor City. Show them all.”

Yes. Everyone ought to see Meteor City. Chrollo brightened. “Do you really wanna go there?”

“Got it covered with the smokes, thanks.” The infant sobbed. Dark bruises colored half of her face. She sighed, finally, and threw her head back against the dumpster. “Do you ever wonder if those magical folks got a way to stop babies from being born? It ain’t fair. What’s your deal anyways, kid?”

“I want to help you.”

“If you wanna help me, jump in that dumpster and choke that thing out. I’m sick of hearing it cry.”

Chrollo could not do that. The child belonged to Meteor City now. When he told her this she only laughed.

“Don't tell me you still believe in Santo Niklaus too. Aren't you kinda old for it?"

"...Huh?"

"You know when people say they’re gonna take a trip to Meteor City, and they mean they feel like shooting their fucking brains out? I take a trip to Meteor City every time I drink, hah. It’s not a real place. When you throw stuff out, it’s gone.” She flicked the red ember of her cigarette. “Poof. Meteor City doesn’t exist, dumbass.”

“I’m right here,” Chrollo told her.

If he slit her throat and threw her in this very dumpster she’d not only see Meteor City herself but contribute to the compost. Become a cabbage for her child to harvest. While he weighed the scales, debating mercy or judgment, she wandered off muttering and left him with no answer.

Chrollo closed his eyes and thought of the catacombs. The holiest place out here must be inside the dumpsters. As he made his way back to his friends he pressed his ear to each one he passed, listening for signs of life.

**OUR INHERITANCE IS TURNED TO STRANGERS, OUR HOUSES TO ALIENS**

Something lurked in the ancient overseers palace. If Chrollo sat in the desert and meditated, third eye open, he could sense something raw and dark and absolutely still. Not the nen of anything human, but from _beyond._

He at least knew the ants were a new type of magical beast, but what the term “magical beast” signified remained unclear. In all his readings of the outside world they were simply classified _other._ Beings from a dark continent in a place humanity could never travel to. 

Chrollo had been to the dark continent. He didn't see anything like these ants there. 

Something in that void of ignorance called to him. The mere challenge of catching this strange soul intrigued him. As a child Chrollo dealt with children. As an adult, he supposed he’d never done enough. This outsider was once a king in his own right. Meteor City lacked any history of diplomacy for Chrollo to fall back on. No problem for a soulcatcher.

He stalked the palace for days in careful observation. He noted each resident that left water bottles by the steps at dusk, how the ants waited till midnight before they hurried into the landfills searching for corpses. Much more than he expected. Some carried buckets, some rolled mysterious barrels, and by sunrise, they disappeared back into the palace.

A lone ghost stole from the resident’s gifts, wandering between the edge of town to the palace walls. Sometimes they opened, but they never allowed him inside. The third time Chrollo saw the ghost he caught him: a wizened and withered puppet, devoid of a soul. Still it wept and pled for mercy in his hands. 

Chrollo tuned out his pleas, frowning at the burns on his body that marked him as shunned, the name carved into his forehead. Living ghosts were a rarity in Meteor City these days. The reason could have been anything: taking too much without giving, taking something not on offer. Anyone who failed to join hands in the meteor’s shadow deemed too unimportant for a life in demand, any soul who refused to be caught.

Even the truckers knew better than to pick these ones up. 

Traditionally the shunned died within three days of wandering the desert. This aberration had lived for months. Chrollo built a cross from rotted wood and warped PVC piping.

“You’re no ant,” he told him. “Why do you steal their gifts?”

The ghost ignored him, rambling. “I have skills,” he begged. “I was the shadow ruler of East Gorteau once; I can get you anything! Tell Gyro -” 

To speak to the shunned was sin. Chrollo shook his head and continued binding him to his cross with frayed electrical wire torn from a fridge. 

Behind him Leorio shouted, “What the hell are you doing to Bizeff!” 

Adorable how the stalked so easily became the stalker. “I’m staking him down so he can die as fate intended,” Chrollo explained, finally bothering to read the name. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been sneaking him food, too?

“I… “ Leorio winced. “I’ve been...”

The ghost turned pleading eyes as Chrollo seized his tongue. Tearing it off might spook Leorio.

“That’s a huge faux-pas,” Chrollo told him. “Whatever he’s done, I guarantee the punishment was deserved. If you’re so concerned, why don’t you ask this… _ Bizeff _… what he did. Go ahead.”

Chrollo wiped his hands off on his coat, stuck them in his pockets and walked back into the city. He heard Leorio shout, heard a meaty sound like a head getting kicked or punched in.

All he needed to know.

By day he asked around about the previous invasion. On the elder's laptops he dug up old articles about the Chimera Ant crisis. In the clinic the healers spoke of bodies that failed to respond to their nen, of deformed corpses that could be dead or living. Their very souls, altered beyond recognition. 

“It’s not that they don’t have souls,” Japril told him, checking a child with grey lumps for legs, “it’s just that they’re… alien, I suppose.”

“Alien?” Chrollo inquired. Elephantiasis, if caused by the cursed worm, could be treated by manipulators. If the disease stemmed from contact with the soil and filth, the child might need to be euthanized. “Don’t be rude.”

“Sepolian,” she corrected. “But do you really think you can capture those souls? The ants took so many of us. If they kill you -” 

“If I die I will live on in your souls, and Meteor City will rise in retaliation,” he said idly, eyes drifting towards Leorio. A healer with a burning finger captured his entire attention, explaining something over a man with a strange swell in his throat. "But if we meet with open hands, I'm sure we can find resolution."

**HE HATH LED ME AND BROUGHT ME INTO DARKNESS, BUT NOT INTO LIGHT**

_"I broke into your house last night, Father. I saw your wife, your little children, your fridge stocked with food. I went into your study to seek a book. You have an impressive collection of theology and pornography. But I saw something else, Father. I have questions. Answer me truthfully."_

_The lattice shattered. The priest cowered in his crown. Chrollo tightened his grip on his throat._

_"How can you call yourself holy when you own so many of the scarlet eyes?"_

**MY SIGHS ARE MANY, AND MY HEART IS FAINT**

Chrollo entered the dingy tattoo shop through the back door. A switch turned on a single bare bulb in a storage room. A better light perched over an easel where Chrollo had tried for the better part of yesterday to capture a spider’s likeness, but for now he focused on the man bound to a folding chair in the middle of the room.

The tattoo artist possessed the splendid ability of a precise needle that never ran out of ink and etched designs that, according to client testimonials and Chrollo’s preliminary investigation, truly spoke to the soul. The only issue was his demands for more jenny, proper identification, and the whereabouts of Shalnark's parents. When Chrollo ungagged him to give him water he made new pleas. Anything they wanted to get them out of his shop and set him free. Chrollo smiled, promised to sleep on his offer, and went to seek the guidance of his friends. 

In the shop proper Franklin stretched on a plush table, dozing. At the reception desk Phinks struggled with the radio, changing the station every few seconds. Feitan draped across the desk itself amusing himself by pricking Phinks with a needle every so often.

Franklin opened one eye. “What happened to you?”

“What happened _here?_”

“Boss!” Phinks stood up, dropping the radio. “Are you hurt? Who did this?"

“Just a wild dog.” Chrollo circled the parlor as if the missing members might spring up like ghosts. “Where are the rest?”

Phinks shut up, rubbing the back of his neck. Franklin answered for him. “They went out a while ago. Said they were gonna grab some food or something.”

“Why? I told you all to wait. Did any of you meditate?”

“A little? Shalnark got hungry -”

“So? I said _wait._ When I got back, we’d all go for food. _Together._”

“Look, Machi put him on the leash.” Franklin sat up, cracking his shoulders. “They said they’d be back in an hour. It’s only been -” he finally noticed the darkness outside. “Oh.”

“Told you boss be pissed,” Feitan sang. He sprang off the desk, twirling the umbrella. “I tell them no, but they don’t listen. Who’s the boss when the boss is gone?”

Chrollo closed his eyes, counted to five. If they failed to follow orders, the fault was in his training. Once elected, all responsibility followed. “Feitan, with me. The rest of you, _wait._”

The glass front doors shattered behind them.

Uvo and Nobu they discovered first, tumbling out of a bar in a fistfight. Uvo rolled in the street, Nobu shattered windows with a pool cue. The moment they saw Chrollo they turned apologetic. According to their story, Machi and Paku didn’t want to drink or bring Shalnark in the bar. Fine enough, up until Nobu handed over Shalnark’s leash.

“He kept complaining about it,” Uvo said. “I mean, the kid’s a genius, he knows not to wander.”

“Machi put him on a string?” Nobu gnawed his lip. “She’s not half bad at those.”

Chrollo smacked them both with the cue stick and ordered them back to the parlor. Next they found Paku stumbling out of an alley vaguely disgruntled, holding two grease-dripping sacks of Clucky’s. Her smile abruptly dropped when she saw them. 

“Chro- boss! Is that your blood? What happened?”

“I should be asking you that.”

If Paku could do one thing, it was read a mood. “I’m sorry,” she said, switching to immediate repentance. “I tried to tell her, but she got sick of waiting and everyone was hungry; you know how she gets… we got fried chicken?”

"I don't need excuses." They better have stolen it rather than paid. “Where’s Machi?”

“Just finishing up back there. Some creeps tried to follow us home. Outsiders… I know. You warned us all.” The handles of the bag twisted, spinning idly. “I’m sorry. There’s no excuse.”

One swift backhand? Maybe not. Nobu and Uvo could take it, but Paku’s miserable face said enough. “The mafia would have sold you for prostitutes,” he hissed. “Did you come here to be kidnapped?”

“Lecture later.” Feitan hooked Chrollo with his umbrella and yanked him into the alley. Together they cast a wavering soul-light, illuminating the scene of a battle already won. Machi blinked in the middle of corpses, stitching herself.

“Great,” Chrollo snapped. “You’d better hope no one comes looking for them.”

“Whatever! We just wanted to get some food. They shouldn’t have followed us.” She jerked them on her strings, slapping them against the brick walls and out of her way. “Everything’s fine. We got the food, Shalnark got some candy - oh.”

“I heard you had him on a string?” Chrollo’s voice stretched thinner than her wires. “Where is it now?”

The shredded bodies spoke enough. Machi groaned. “If you were so worried, why didn’t you just take him with you! Why did you bring him out here in the first place?”

“I was _busy,_” he spat. “Looks like my mistake was trusting you.” Shalnark might only be six, but he was nothing like Shizuku. Shalnark begged to go into the outside world. He wanted to be a leg, and Chrollo _knew,_ he knew all along, the only mistakes made tonight reflected his own. Shalnark's natural manipulation aside, Chrollo should have known better.

“No time for this.” Feitan pointed with his umbrella. “You take food. We take Paku.”

Paku proved useful, playing the role of panicked mother grasping at the hands of outsiders. Most shoved her off when she asked for a towheaded child. As she described her ability, reading through the trash of outsiders gave her insight into their minds. It meant little to Chrollo at the time. Now he saw the truth, when she slipped away from one man who insisted a little too loudly he'd never seen a child in his life.

"Got him."

**IT IS OF THE LORD'S MERCIES THAT WE ARE NOT CONSUMED**

The ants ground corpses into balls along with the heads and consumed them raw. Chrollo saw two working outside, observed how they savored the brains.

Cannibalism was no taboo in Meteor City. In fact their mutual indulgence in things the outside world considered criminal might serve as a point of connection. Traditionally an elder, upon ascension, would feed their severed noses and lips to those whose sides they worked closest to in a final farewell to individuality. At death their heads were burned while their dehydrated bodies, bones and all, were ground to meal. Mixed with ash, they were a welcome nutritional supplement. 

It took a week until two elders finally withered of the vitamin deficiencies and strange cancers that afflicted most residents even healers couldn't prevent. The shield ability died with them. At the skinning ceremony Chrollo ordered their heads be presented as soul-offerings. Though sacrilege, Chrollo pointed out that the ants physiology might not receive the curse of tremors. Cultural differences must be tolerated. 

Dawn of the seventh day saw Chrollo headed to the landfill with two plastic bags, wearing his old feathered coat.

A lone black fleck stood in the desert, blurry in mirage. As Chrollo drew closer he saw an unmistakable ghost. Even from afar he recognized Feitan. 

Feitan drew his umbrella. Blazing aura struck out, dispelling the dust. Not a ghost, not a hallucination. The drawn sword served message enough; Chrollo set down his gifts and opened his book.

Fighting someone of Feitan’s caliber was one of Chrollo’s worst nightmares. No defense but to wear him out and watch for the sword. If Feitan truly wanted to kill him there'd be no time to open the book.

Every time Feitan landed a cloud of sand rose, trapping Chrollo in the storm. He swept the sand away, catching fleeting glances. A streak of sun on a blade. Slow him down, wear him out, find an opening to swat - but not too hard. The more he hurt Feitan the stronger his true ability would be.

Chrollo did not want to die. He didn’t want to kill Feitan, either. 

When he turned tail to run through a gap in the sand the hilt of the umbrella hooked under his robe. Chrollo fell flat on his face as Feitan hopped on his back and started slapping him with the hilt.

“Feitan, what are you doing?”

“Fuck you, Chrollo! _tuls yzarc_ should’ve sunk on the damn boat! How come you still here? Why you trust the fucking Zoldyck? Too many secrets!” A thwack hit Chrollo in the head. “Whole damn spider is dead!”

“How did you make it out?” Chrollo bucked his shoulders and rolled, grabbing for the umbrella. “Cut it out. You let Phinks and Nobunaga die under your watch,” he challenged. “We should both kill ourselves. You were supposed to take over without me!”

“Illumi tried to take Kalluto. I try to get Kalluto back. Zoldycks take some special airship, I sneak on. Whole family crazy, Chrollo!” Feitan sighed theatrically. “Tell you mom you still alive, and _maybe _we get Kalluto back.”

“You want Kalluto back?” Chrollo sat up, rubbing the grit on his forehead. “Wait. Were you - what did you do to him?”

“Nothing! I don’t do nothing, he like me, he love me! Zoldycks, they train the kids young, you know? So cute, Chrollo… only twelve. So sweet. Me, maybe I’m twelve, huh?”

“Feitan -” Chrollo glared at the last of the Ainemrans. Tricky little gremlins that defied the passage of time. “You’re at least forty years old.”

Feitan growled and thwacked him again. “Fuck you. Least I’m still sexy. You ugly old man now. Too big.” 

So it was _Chrollo_ now. Chrollo sighed. “Oh, well. I suppose they owe us ten times over now. If the spider is dead, does anything mean anything anymore?” 

“We still here,” Feitan shrugged, twirling his umbrella daintily. He offered a hand to pull Chrollo up. “You know my people, Chrollo? We don’t believe in ghosts, souls, meteors, none of that crap. Maybe holding you back, huh?”

“I’m happy you’re alive,” Chrollo said honestly. "Are you with these ants now?"

“Gyro ain’t no thief. He don’t steal. He _makes._” Feitan shrugged, slung his umbrella over a shoulder. "Come. You meet new boss now."

**AMONGST ALL HER LOVERS, SHE HAS NONE TO COMFORT HER**

The coffeehouse in the memory turned out to be just two doors down from the tattoo parlor. They looked through shuttered windows, then broke one open and hopped inside. Muffled laughter trembled the floorboards. In the back kitchen ruddy light shone from below a door marked “EMPLOYEES ONLY.”

Feitan picked the lock. A set of stairs in a descending hall unfolded. Feitan drew his umbrella while Chrollo slunk behind, clinging to the wall. As they drew closer raucous brays grew clearer, as did the stench of tobacco.

“Another round, gentlemen?” One elegant voice floated above the rest. “Come on, try your luck against the prodigy. Only a child, what could he possibly do? Win and you might get a taste!”

Chrollo pushed to the front. Feitan hissed in his ear as if he didn’t know to observe first. He kept his head low and his soul silent, practicing a technique the outsiders called _in._

A gaggle of twenty vapid-looking men surrounded a long low table in the middle of the room. Around smaller tables lay abandoned, dice and cards and cups left in favor of the spectacle. Before a spread of beer and cards, wreathed in cigarette smoke on the side furthest from Chrollo, Shalnark sat on an outsider’s lap with a lollipop stick in his mouth.

Shalnark spread out his chubby arms to sweep in a pile of jenny. “Look! We won!” The lollipop dropped in an ashtray. Shalnark reached, but the stranger caught his arm.

“Ah-ah, that’s a no-no,” he crooned. “It's too dirty. I’ll give you another once we win. The biggest, sweetest lollipop there is.” The stranger dropped a kiss in his hair.

What was _that_ intent? Chrollo braced a hand against the wall. “Get the others,” he whispered to Paku, studying the outsider to divine the soul.

The man holding him seemed young, though easily the tallest in the room. Gold bracelets encircled powerful arms, and garnets dangled from his ears. Cropped hair shone vibrant teal against dark roots. Though the thugs and gamblers did their best to peacock, no one could match his feathers. One hand held an array of cards where Shalnark could see while the other ran up Shalnark’s bare arm.

“Isn’t he a delight?” the young man purred. He raised a finger in a wagging motion at a grumbling thug making a swipe at the coins. “None of that, Mistroso. I promise he’ll make up the losses in spades.”

“Yeah? Gonna need a bit of evidence.” The man grunted around a cigar. “How ‘bout you give us a little show first?”

“What, right here on the table?”

Feitan muttered: “_Go._”

Page four. The most advanced version of a soulsweep, made by a manipulator and an emitter. With this Chrollo could manipulate very small and inert particles. He needed two hands for the initial sweep to make his weapons; Chrollo opened his book in the time it took him to jump.

Glass shattered, cards and jenny went flying. Chrollo hopped from a forgotten game of dominoes to crash the party proper. The men shouted, writhed as they found themselves covered in small cuts. As they fumbled for firearms a streak slashed down one line of the table and a line of heads tumbled, severed with one sweep of Feitan’s sword.

Chrollo turned on a heel to snatch Shalnark before Feitan struck the other side and nearly twisted his ankle.

Two cards dripped, edged with blood, as the other line of bodies slipped in pieces to the floor. The young man holding Shalnark hadn’t even gotten up.

“Chrollo!” Shalnark clapped his hands.

“Shalnark.” Chrollo coughed politely. “We’ve been quite worried about you.”

“Well, well, well,” the outsider drawled. “You must be the parents? How quaint.” His eyes gleamed at Chrollo’s book. Chrollo stuck it inside the kangaroo sleeve of his hoodie before deactivating. “Was Shalnark late for his bedtime story?”

“Give him back,” Feitan hissed.

“We’d like him back, please.”

“Oh, but little Shal loves counting cards!” He pinched a chubby cheek. “We’re having _so_ much fun.”

“This is Hisoka,” Shalnark smiled. “He’s my friend! Did you get candy? I want more!"

“Well, dear, it seems we must ask your father first.” Hisoka gently pushed Shalnark off his lap, giving him a pat on his bottom. Shalnark pouted while Chrollo knelt to buckle the leash back around his waist. “Don’t be cruel, now.” Hisoka grinned, smacking a wad of gum. “The child wants candy.”

Chrollo frowned, checking Shalnark for bruises or marks. Nothing he could see but a red candy-stained tongue. He tugged the leash experimentally, gave up and swept Shalnark up in his arms when he stood. “I don’t have any.”

“Where did you go?” Shalnark asked, patting Chrollo’s chest as if he’d find something there. “Machi’s too mean. I want more candy!”

“Who's that? The sister?” Hisoka leaned on his elbows, propping up his chin as he surveyed Chrollo with gold slitted eyes. “And here I thought Shal was the interesting one… some of that blood is yours, correct? How lovely.” A pink bubble expanded between his lips, popped. “Did it hurt when you climbed out of the dumpster? Ah, that’s no good. You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t have a proper pick-up line ready. Not every day I see a ragged little monster like you. How long have you been studying nen?”

Chrollo could not explain the strange feeling in his stomach. The blood loss must have left him dazed. An involuntary shiver made him grip Shalnark so tight he yelped. “Hold your blade,” he told Feitan. "Wait for the others."

“For such a pretty little thing, you sure smell like shit,” Hisoka remarked. “Sit down for a minute. Let’s chat. Chrollo, right?”

Chrollo looked up at the sound of tromping feet. The rest of the spider came down panting, ready for battle. He held up a hand to stop them.

“Asshole!” Machi stomped a foot. “That’s the one, Chrollo. He started talking to Shalnark at Clucky’s and -”

“I’m surprised you remember. You weren’t paying a whit of attention to the poor boy.” Chrollo couldn’t read his eyes or soul, or even begin to tell what he saw as he scanned every one of them. “Goodness gracious. A whole army of teenagers? Not quite ripe, though, are we?”

“Cocky brat,” Feitan snapped. “Kill now?”

“I said _wait._ Calm down, Machi.”

“Shalnark talks a little too much,” Hisoka said. “Did he really kill six people, or were you just dragging him around on the leash for that one? I’d keep a better eye on your children, dad - you are the father, correct?”

Chrollo stepped carefully backward and down, unwilling to remove his eyes. “I don’t know what this is yet,” he told the others.

“Hey, I don’t bite.” A deck of cards appeared between Hisoka’s hands, shuffled. “I’m just a traveling magician myself.”

“Boss, what the hell?” Phinks cracked his neck.

“Give us the order!” Uvo chimed in. “One versus eight, what’s he gonna do?”

Cards flashed as Hisoka dealt a hand to no one. “Don’t worry about me, Tarzard. I could take you all down in a single round. Why don’t we start with a little game, daddy?”

The grime sticking to Chrollo’s skin felt smothering. Hisoka’s bare, clean arms flexed as he played with his cards. Chrollo tore his eyes away, duly shamed.

“Aww, don’t tell me. The silent type? That’s okay. I’m a little shy, too.”

“You ask too many questions for an outsider,” Chrollo said finally. “Those men… what sort of prizes could Shalnark offer them?”

“Oh!” Hisoka’s eyes widened. “No, no, don’t misunderstand me. I simply found this child wandering around and thought, goodness gracious, whatever would happen if a filthy _pedophile_ got his hands on him? These streets are crawling with them. Like any good person, I took action, and, well, then I thought I’d play a little game.” He gestured at the corpses surrounding them. “Relax. I wasn’t going to hurt the boy.”

“...You used him as a trap?”

“Just to catch the real monsters, of course! Here, sit down. Play a hand or two. Koopas? How about Four Colors? Not in the mood for games, are we? How about a reading?”

Chrollo set Shalnark down and beckoned for Franklin to take the leash. “I’m not going to show you my book.”

“No, no, _I_ read _your_ cards. It’s just fortune-telling. Magic. Like nen.” Hisoka smiled. “Has anyone ever told you your aura is terrifying? I think I'm in love."

Chrollo could tell fortunes, too. One day a meteor would land and burn the earth to waste. He kicked two corpses aside and sat down. The deck fell to slivers between the magician’s hands, transformed into a neat stack he slid across the bloodied table to Chrollo.

“Go on. Draw a card.”

“Bullshit,” Feitan snapped. “We don’t need none of this, boss.”

Maybe they did. If Chrollo knew _when_ the meteor would strike, he’d have time to build a bunker. If he knew the result of his failed excursion today he wouldn’t have wasted all this time. Everyone could have gone out for Clucky’s together. Chrollo plucked a card.

“The Jack of Spades,” Hisoka sighed. “Definitely no King yet. You’ve come from great hardship, haven’t you?”

“We don't honor any monarchies,” Chrollo said stubbornly. “What's a jack?”

“A prince. Not bad if you’re just starting out. Come, let’s see if the next is diamonds.”

No diamonds. Chrollo drew a six of spades, a single heart, not waiting for Hisoka to explain. On a Begerossan beach he saw diamonds on the hands of tourists, sparkling like the white sands, cradling the shoulders of sleek and tanned child prostitutes. The mafiosos who made false promises to residents had them, too. Maybe, with enough diamonds...

Feitan broke the spell with a sweep of the umbrellas hilt, scattering the deck. “Stupid,” he sneered. “We search the bodies. Maybe find some diamonds right here.”

“On these guys?” Hisoka sniffed. “Not a chance. Dendora thugs can’t compete with the Zoldycks here.”

“I have to go,” Chrollo apologized. “My friends are getting antsy. But - “ he bit his lips. The gold on Hisoka’s wrists and the mystery of the cards still held allure. He knew his mistake already: abandoning his friends for too long. 

Hisoka sighed. Rubbery shots of pink aura shot from his fingers, collecting up the cards. “Saying goodbye so soon? After ruining my plans for tonight? Don’t leave me hanging, Chrollo.” Hisoka pouted. “How about a kiss good-bye?”

“Don’t you talk to him like that!” Phinks roared.

That same aura lashed out, caught Chrollo by the chin. Chrollo let it pull him in until they were close enough to kiss. “I returned your child safely, and I’m letting you go in peace. Don’t I deserve something in return?”

How far could this aura stretch?

"I mean it." His breath smelled like the poison that rotted teeth. Hisoka severed ten heads without blinking. No telling what else he might be capable of. Now Chrollo saw it: the most powerful soul he'd yet seen. One capable of making the water sweet.

No reason to trust this outsider. Fear curdled the water of his soul. Shalnark may not have been hurt yet, but Chrollo understood. A balance upset, a debt in need of repayment. Chrollo closed his eyes and remembered a story he'd heard once, about the prisoner that cut off her fingers to feed the others.

“Take me instead.”

“Right here? Right now?”

“Let them leave in peace.” Chrollo trembled. How much blood had he lost? “If - for Shalnark’s sake - I’ll do what you want. But let them all go.”

"You can try to take him," Franklin said, slamming his fists together. "Gotta get through all of us first."

“What a good boss,” Hisoka mused. “Is that why you wear that cross?” He caught Chrollo’s lips in a sudden searing kiss. “You look half-broken enough, darling. I wouldn’t want to break you too soon. Maybe one day I'll join your little family. What would you think of that?”

The aura released. Chrollo fell back, stumbled on a head and was caught in the arms of his friends.

Hisoka blew a kiss as they left.

They crossed the street and went back to the tattoo parlor awkwardly silent. As they settled in for the night with cold chicken Chrollo went to the back to look at his wounds again, ignoring the captive artist.

He checked some boxes of sanitation supplies. He found antiseptic wipes and tore off his clothes, ripped at his crusty rags. After cleaning his wounds he scrubbed his body down. The wipes were small, meant to sterilize needles. They turned black quickly.

Only those born of water and the spirit could enter the kingdom. Was Chrollo’s body a temple? Or was he meant to break free from his earthly form?

His mind flashed back to the outsiders he'd seen today. Perhaps some like Hisoka could prove useful. One failure today meant nothing. If outsiders had souls, Chrollo could catch them. Eventually. They simply did not know the truth. As a proper messiah, Chrollo must offer mercy.

Chrollo fell on his back, waiting for the kaleidoscope to stop spinning.

Art hung everywhere in the parlor, even back here among the stacks of boxes. If any of the outsiders he’d seen today had art hidden on their bodies, Chrollo was too tired and hurting to care. Disgusted sneers and averted faces swam in his vision. The fact that no one took pity on a lost child but another murderer said enough about this world. He glared at a print of a human heart rendered in extraordinary anatomical detail and envisioned it ground to dust. Screw the artist. The art of tattoo shouldn't be too hard to learn.

A familiar growl of hunger interrupted his musings. With typical perfect timing, Feitan entered the room with an offering of chicken and a side of coleslaw. Chrollo sat up, gracefully accepting a luxury of cabbage coated in milky sweet dressing.

Feitan plopped to the floor nonchalant, leaning back on his arms. He’d stripped down to a simple white undershirt and black pants. His bandanna lay around his collarbone as he gnawed contemplatively on a piece of chicken before asking, “How come you don’t get Machi to help?”

Chrollo picked out a piece of mysterious orange vegetable. “Would she? I messed up. I got so angry today." A slice of Chrollo’s thigh gaped open, red to yellow. “I have to go apologize to everyone.”

“It’s okay. You learn fast. We grow, we trust, we do better next time. First time out so far from home,” Feitan noted. He sucked grease off his fingers. "Everyone stupid. Teenagers, huh?”

“...What do you mean?”

“What, you…” Feitan groaned. “_tishavunos._ You what, thirteen now?”

“Sixteen. Same as you.”

“Maybe you learn slow, little boss” Feitan muttered. “It’s easy. See, Machi like Paku. Paku like you. Nobu, he dumb, but Machi smart enough to string him. Uvo, he just follow Nobu.” Feitan made circles with his fingers and a chicken bone. “Then you got Phinksy… oh boy. Too messy.”

Chrollo thought of where Paku said she wanted her tattoo, how she’d blushed and traced the inside of her thigh. Burning auras, simmering tensions, Machi’s strings and Phinks’s fists. "That's horrible. I wouldn't take advantage of anyone. Besides, reproductive activities are sinful."

“And then you go ahead and try to fuck the clown_._” It almost sounded accusatory. Different from the cool appraisal he needed from Feitan. “Nice and tall, huh? Wanna fuck nasty clown?”

“I offered myself as sacrifice. And yet... " How did Feitan understand so much so clearly? “No. Of course not. But he didn't hurt me, in the end."

"Anyone hurt one of us, we all hurt them back."

"Of course. But what if he wants to join us? What if another outsider tries?” A spider only had eight legs. “We can't close ourselves off completely, not if we want to walk in this world. We might be thirteen. Like Christ and his disciples."

"Here we go.” Feitan rolled his eyes. “Jesus time."

"Not Jesus," Chrollo said firmly. "We are a dark messiah with a Bible yet unwritten. The serpent tried to teach humanity the truth of good and evil. Only to be cursed and cast out of the garden to eat dust.” He stared at the bound artist in fitful sleep. Something was still wrong. He’d put it his finger on it later. "Feitan, have you ever kissed anyone?”

Feitan blinked, coughed on a shard of bone before his expression slid back to effortless calm. “Hmm? Why you ask?”

“I’ve never,” Chrollo said. “I wonder.” He wanted to put a name to the unease in his belly, to understand whatever happened with Hisoka. Only to make it easier. So that problems like tonight wouldn’t happen again. “We could practice,” he told Feitan. “Just us.”

“Oh? Little secret, huh?” He grinned. “You got some big secret today, boss.”

“That was -”

“I don’t care.” Feitan patted a thigh. “Come here, little boss.”

Chrollo set down his cup of coleslaw. Feitan tossed the chicken bone. He licked his fingers again, slower. A pair of yellow eyes narrowed to slits, nearly like Hisoka’s. Their lips brushed as a tingle ran down Chrollo’s spine, igniting fresh pain in the slashes down his back.

It felt good. Better than Kikyou’s delicate touch, better than Shalnark’s heat in his arms. Chrollo relaxed, met him again, and again, until his soul and his mouth alike filled with water. After a minute or so he had to draw back, panting.

Feitan snickered. “Cute, boss. How far you wanna go this time?”

“As far as we can.” 

Feitan kneaded the shredded meat of his back. Rutted into the deeper cuts left by the Zoldyck's dog, opening them deeper, until he slipped inside to the place that always turned the colors to pure white and black, until Chrollo knew exactly where he wanted to go next.

Eleven years ago, the Lukso province hoped to join with the states of Kreeg and Rolgaria, to form the proper union of the Taltic states. First they tried to remove an even tinier pest that pillaged their villages, that stole from scraps and lived in tents. In the end the proposed union crumbled in on itself in an economic crash and the mafia moved in to pick up the spoils. No one spoke of them now.

Somewhere in there lurked a secret.

“These outsiders know nothing of the world,” Chrollo said lowly. "They_ choose _to ignore our truth. We'll drag them into the light whether they want it or not. Find all their secrets and dump their trash in the streets. We'll even get those red-eyed demons of yours. I swear it, Feitan."   
  
Clawed hands teased at the fringes of his wounds. “You go, I follow.”

In the morning he felt refreshed enough for mercy. The artist instructed him how to use the gun, and he tattooed every spider with his own hands. Chrollo told him how lucky he was, and that if he breathed a word to anyone about what he'd seen... 

"Yeah," the artist gulped. "I got it."

**IS THIS THE CITY THAT MEN CALL THE PERFECTION OF BEAUTY? **

No longer did the palace drape in cobwebs and dust. Chrollo had no time to admire the ancient architecture, though, for the entire place was packed with ants.

Fearsome beasts he’d only caught sight of on the news. Some were fuzzy and soft like mascot characters, some reptilian and scaled, with segmented limbs and antennae and oddly shaped eyes. A pair of obvious guards pulled their backs from the wall, following him and Feitan. Others frowned over bubbling glasses holding clipboards and frowning, some stirred powders set on Bunsen burners and fires. Plenty of others hung around, chatting, throwing dice. 

It really didn’t look much different from any other drug den he'd seen in his travels. What surprised Chrollo the most was the recognition. Twisted faces smiled to see him, excited chatters rose as they passed. Even a few humans in the mix rushed to greet them.

"Survivors among the transformed?" Chrollo asked. "These were the ones who the old queen captured, yes?"

“All of them remember Meteor City,” Feitan explained. “Most of them wanna die for being ant. We put them down after we kill stupid bitch queen, but some, they try to give it another go. Too scared to go home, too scared to leave. Poor things, wandering the desert. Gyro try to bring them home.” Feitan grinned. “Still loyal, though. Wait for you.”

Chrollo smiled, blessing the transformed souls who sought his hands. “How beautiful,” he said. If these ants were still residents, there'd be no danger of them developing a taste for the living. “Where did all of this glassware come from?”

“I make a forge.” Feitan proudly stabbed at his chest. “We fix stuff. Good, right?”

"Is that our guest?" A firm, commanding voice. "Make way, everybody. Let me get a look at him." 

The crowd parted to make way for a shrouded figure. Nearly as tall as Chrollo, clad in a black puffer coat. A bandanna hid the lower half of his face, but he held out open hands in greeting. Chrollo made out a pair of eyes in the shadows: flat black and even, the same as his own.

"I am the soulcatcher of Meteor City," he told him. "I bring offerings of our people." 

The figure bowed awkwardly. "Gyro. You honor us with your presence."

Chrollo opened his soul for further inspection, struggling to cast a light into the depths. Even the aura carried an iridescent richness to it, sheens of purple and turquoise like an oil slick. A complete soul and a specialist. Feitan took the gifts and presented them to Gyro; he glanced inside the bags and made a quiet sound. "The heads of our elders," Chrollo explained. "They hold all the knowledge of my people."

"Beautiful," Gyro murmured. "Just beautiful. Feitan, make sure to distribute the brains evenly. Don't let Hina get too hungry, eh? All right, all right. Bring it on in. I've been waiting too long for this." A scaled right hand grasped Chrollo's own in a solid, confident shake. "Feitan's told me quite a bit about you. Only the best, of course."

"It's a pleasure, but don't do that in the city," Chrollo warned. "It's a grevious insult at best, if not an outright threat."

"My apologies. Where are my manners?" A mutual exchange seemed best; they slapped open palms together. A reptilian tongue flicked out from the hood. "Welfin, Chaco. Bring refreshments to the solar. This is no place for a proper meeting. We'll have the full tour later."

He led Chrollo up winding staircases, well-scrubbed and gleaming, to the highest point of the tower. On the way they passed more ants and even people hard at work on scaffolds, repairing recent damage. Some of them played music on boomboxes; working radios rarely existed in Meteor City. 

The overseer’s solar was high enough to look down on the remains of the camptown. The windows, scrubbed free of centuries of dust and grime, were plastered over again with notes. Plastic tubs were stacked all over the room, where it seemed strange molds were being cultivated. A rabbit that resembled a teenage girl hunched over one, chewing on a pen as she glanced at a notebook.

Gyro offered a seat, apologizing for the mess. No offense in Meteor City. Chrollo simply sat on the floor while Gyro curled up on one of his tubs. With his arms crossed he made a perfect bundle. A wizened little wolf and a furry cockroach returned with the promised refreshments: snacks from the gas stations. Fire Oceloo’s and Snowclods resembled too closely the nutritionless junk the mafiosos used to offer residents. A cold V6 juice tasted good, though. Gyro cracked a joke about the shadowy cabals that ran the world that made Chrollo smile. 

“I thought you were cannibals?” 

Gyro shrugged and pulled down his bandanna, revealing a simple green face Chrollo did not judge. He stuck a Cheesy Oceloo in between his fangs. “We definitely need human flesh to survive. As for this, even monsters need to feel human sometimes.”

“Gyro doesn’t get it,” the rabbit said. “If we were cannibals we’d be eating ants. Not humans.”

“I suppose Hina’s right.” Scaled lips stretched in a thin black line. “Hina, why don’t you run along with the others? The soulcatcher brought us a very special gift. Feitan's distributing the brains.”

"Brains?" She ran out with a ravenous look, barely remembering to bow. Chrollo took note of both the unmistakable fondness in Gyro’s flat-lidded gaze and how quickly she responded to the orders.

"You're a good boss," he noted. "I used to be one myself."

“Oh, I’ve heard stories of the Phantom Troupe,” Gyro said wryly. He did not elaborate on what sort of stories, only cocked his head and flicked his tongue. “So, Chrollo Lucilfer. You’re supposed to be a god or something? I’m an atheist myself.”

“More of a symbol,” Chrollo said. “Most people come here as refuse; I came as a gift. I was meant to be a spiritual leader to my people.”

“Sounds exhausting.” 

“I never asked for it, but here we are.” He tapped his forehead. “Don't mistake this for Catholicism. I bow to no outsider gods.”

Gyro hummed thoughtfully. “So the meteor is your god?”

“More like a promise of eventual destruction. In a place like this, we find hope in the fact that one day our suffering will end.” Chrollo smiled. “I pray for the meteor myself, but it is a frightening thought.” 

Gyro blinked, odd flat eyes. “I think I’m starting to get it.”

“It’s easy to get confused. Early in their spiritual journey, even some residents believe we believe we worship meteors, but the truth is we are all a meteor. Every single one of us holds infinite power of destruction and creation.” He raised his right hand. “The darkness. Hatred, evil. When they first dropped bombs on us the thick clouds of smoke blocked out the sun, and yet the cruelty was deemed right by the outside world.” 

“Like the handshake rule,” Gyro chuckled. “Maybe that’s what happened to Bizeff.”

Chrollo raised his left. “The left hand represents love, goodness, and mercy. The sun breaking through the haze.” He clapped his hands together. “Beyond this dualism, we find the complete human. Beyond the human, we find the complete soul. As for myself I’ve only recently discovered the usage of my left hand. I hope to do more with it.”

“I love this collectivism you got going on.” He slowly patted himself, searching for a pack of cigarettes. “I’d like to say there’s honor among thugs, but these people don’t give a shit about _anything_ but each other. Never saw anything like it. Ah, hope you don’t mind if I -”

“Go ahead. Spend long enough here, you’ll give it up.” 

“Force of habit,” Gyro muttered. “I don’t know what it does for me anymore. Neurological receptors all screwed to hell.”

“Back to our faith.” Chrollo folded his fingers, interlocking as if in prayer. “We never forget this capacity for all. When we join hands in the face of imminent destruction, there we find our potential. Everyone is a bomb; whatever we unleash depends on the choice we make. In Meteor City we choose survival every day. Not of the individual, but of the whole.”

Gyro stared, the Oceloo’s forgotten. When the bag fell he made no move to pick it up; halfway to a resident already. “And _that_ is why I want you guys so bad. Somehow this pit of garbage you got people willing to blow themselves up for each other. You may think you have no resources, but the truth is? Your greatest resource is your people.”

“Really?” Chrollo blinked. Dust in his eye. “My people are suffering and weak. We die about as fast as new souls land. For a while we had the troupe to give us hope, but even that died. I came home in disgrace bearing a curse.”

“I see.” Gyro stood up, walked to the window with a slow plod. Though his brain clearly worked fast, his moves remained sluggish. Chrollo wondered if that puffy coat hid a tortoiseshell. He followed him to the window, leaned against it while Gyro lifted a sheet of paper covered in chemical formulas and bizarre symbols to gaze down at the city. “We had it good in NGL,” he muttered. “You’re right, though. Your people are dying. Cut off from the world, stripped of any resources, left to die forgotten. A shame you all decided killing yourselves was your best defense.”

“What else can we do?”

“First we gotta fix this place up. Give you something to bargain with.” Thin curls of smoke escaped two pinprick nostrils as he nodded at the tubs. “Some of the strangest molds I’ve ever seen grow here. Not to mention all the chemicals everyone tosses out. This black shit here, if you ate it, it’d make you sick. But if you extract certain acids from it you can make LSD. We've been giving the truckers an analogue of speed, and I'm still working on cooking up something like phenethylamine - are you familiar with any designer drugs? Because there’s no end to what we can get going here. We've made a good start, but we need so much more...” Gyro’s voice remained completely neutral. Only a hint of a rasp, like the rattle of a cicada’s wings. “Hate to break it to you, but stealing isn’t much of an economic policy.” 

“I used to buy little things for us; gasmasks and such," Chrollo mused. "Yet nothing I did ever seemed enough, and in the end residents have little desire for more. If we had something to offer the outside world, maybe we could stop the trucks.”

“Don’t think so small. You could_ take over_ the trucks. Take over the entire Begerosse Union and block the ports. Force them to deal with their own shit.” A claw traced symbols: hexagons bound by chains. 

Chrollo followed him to the window and found a diagram he could comprehend. Sprinkler systems for the compost fields only led to more trash, and the residents had little water to spare. A collective ability could do the job and so Chrollo's plastics ended up in the trash. “And what? Get bombed to death? Start the process all over again?”

“They won’t bomb you if you’re supplying them all with something they won’t admit they need. Everyone likes drugs, my friend. Especially the politicians.” The claw turned into a fist, rapping the window. Ancient glass did not crack that easily, but a thin line like a spider’s web stretched. “Do you know how much it costs to send _all_ of your trash to one single location? The United States of Saherta spends eleven billion jenny a year on this. Fucking dimbrained capitalists don’t know how to run a damn country. In NGL, I had us at ten percent waste. We had our own damn landfills. You talk about recycling and everyone acts like it's magic. Hell, they could profit off their own waste. Fucking unbelievable. This world is run by _idiots_.”

“I never went to Neo Green-Life,” Chrollo said carefully. “Not a fan of trees.”

“It was beautiful. It was all mine, and I made it myself,” Gyro said doggedly.

"Where are you from?"

“Somewhere in the Mitene Union. Dunno the name. Big city. Kept getting bigger and bigger while we kept building.”

"In the shadows of their gleaming cities, slavery still flourishes in the construction camps," Chrollo said. “I’ve seen those. Do you know what we call this tower you’ve chosen?”

“The overseers palace. Yeah. Your survivor ants were scared, but the floods were coming.” He grimaced. 

“This was a concentration camp for political prisoners. We were tortured, abused, and then cast out and buried and bombed. Here, we have no masters but ourselves and the imminent threat of death.” He paused. "Your hatred is admirable. Do you know why I think Meteor City is the most beautiful place in the world?"

Gyro hmmed. “Do tell."

"I admit I was curious about the outside world growing up. I read their magazines, their literature, studied their magic. When I traveled in their world I held unbelievable treasures in my hand. And yet none of it ever meant anything to me." He trailed his fingers down ancient glass, smearing a line of grease. "Their love, their wisdom, art and philosophies and families - all of it’s a lie. Here in Meteor City we see the truth." He turned from the window abruptly. "Do you remember the first person you killed?"

"...I do."

"How interesting,” Chrollo murmured. “I don't."

“Look. I’ll be the first to tell you what I think of _God._ Your religion creeped me out at first. But you’re right. We were right in the middle of the fucking city and no one ever saw us. There’s no way to communicate. I shut off completely, but you guys... send out the bomb squads, eh? Blow it up to smithereens. Heh.” The cigarette clenched between his fangs. “Incredible.”

Time to face the unspoken truth in the room. "You clearly have an awakened soul, but are you familiar with nen yet? Have you been learning from us?"

"A little bit. Like I said, I'm an atheist. Bit of a shock to wake up as a magical bug. _Ungeheures ungeziefer - _and yet, I can't say I'm feeling too deprived. Still eating, still moving. When they turned my people all of them forgot their names. All but me."

"I've read Kofta. You don't look like a dung beetle to me, though. Do you have wings under your shell?" A private, guarded man. Yet so open in his communications. Chrollo could catch this soul after all. "Let me show you my ability first."

Gyro looked interested in his book. Though Chrollo did not let him touch it, he asked about many pages, nodded thoughtfully to himself. "So if I told you mine... all you have to do is - shit. You could steal with a handshake. But you say you can give them back?" 

"Yes. I give and I take away at my own discretion. As for you, I can see you're a specialist. See, most humans - or ants - exhibit only a facet of the collective soul. You and I are complete. If I had water..." 

"I tried it out on a can of Croaka-cola. The soda disappeared, but all of a sudden Hina's empty can filled. The residents say I have the power to bless. I found out I can awaken abilities in others." Aura shimmered, twisting in smoky tendrils. Chrollo felt something like the pull of a magnet. “Imagine if all of your people had proper abilities. Imagine what they could do if they had the time to study. I don't know if they'd be willing to develop individual abilities, but with your knack for collective nen, I'm pretty sure we can do just about anything.”

“But you wouldn't give us such power without an area to direct it in, would you.”

“I don't want addicts and I don't want slaves. Those bigwigs sons of bitches are sitting on my old land, letting it run empty. I want to take down the Hunter’s Association and get NGL back. It’s a helluva job, don’t get me wrong. But we got all the time in the world to turn the tables. Hunt those suckers down. They think they’re so powerful? Hah.” Gyro turned to him, extended both hands. “Win me the souls of your people. Make them believe in me. In _us._ You wanna get Biblical? How does the promised land sound?”

How thrilling. Chrollo always liked Moses. “It’s a good time to strike against the Association. They’re still scrambling after the failure of their trip to the Dark Continent. As for my personal interest... _render unto them a recompence, according to the work of their hands."_ The gatekeepers of this cursed world deserve it. Not to mention I accidentally kidnapped one of the Zodiacs.”

Those flat eyes bulged. “How?”

Chrollo shrugged. “I was lonely. I needed someone.” Thinking of Leorio brought a wistful smile. Twice as tall as Feitan and lacking Hisoka’s base desires. A sorely needed opposite to everything he’d had before. “He’s perfect for me, even if he doesn’t know it yet.”

“Embracing the left hand, eh?”

Chrollo nodded. “You may think I’m handing over too much power, but it’s the truth that I’m tired. I’d like to settle down and focus on guiding my people. I'll be the prophet, you'll be the messiah." 

“Makes sense.” Gyro shook his head, tongue flicking. “For a religious guy, you seem pretty rational to me.”

To catch this soul, Chrollo must look into his own. Even in the empty well, he found slick sludge, and he realized where he sought water Gyro brought _oil_. “I’m not religious in the slightest,” he said. “Have you ever heard of the Kurta clan?”

**SHALL THE PRIEST AND THE PROPHET BE SLAIN IN THE SANCTUARY?**

_**"**This says the Kurtas were warriors centuries ago. Until they were hunted and decimated and reduced to chattel."_

_The Lukso elder spat blood on a lurid headline. "Jesus Christ... Jesus fucking Christ. Look, you wanted Kurtas, I gave you Kurtas. Why'd you have to -"_

_The history book slammed again. "Where are the beasts who burned the Ainemrans? Where were the ravaging warriors?"_

_"Ainemrans? Those disgusting little demons? They were the size of kids and twice as scared."_

_"Ouch," Paku said. "He sure thinks he's telling the truth. Sorry, Feitan."_

_ "Little people hungry! We eat a little, steal a little, so what?" _

_"Look, the Kurtas were nobodies, but they made a bargain to live in those woods over a hundred years ago. We weren't gonna burn down those ragged tents ourselves! The extermination was a delicate political - wait a second, let's just talk - "_

_His head cushioned the book this time. Over and over again. Aura enfolded, strengthened through temper. _Ko _strong enough to crush a head to brain matter._

_"I didn't let them talk, either."_

_Feitan whistled. "Nice one, boss."_

**MINE EYE RUNNETH DOWN WITH RIVERS OF WATER ** **FOR THE DESTRUCTION OF MY PEOPLE**

"If I'm not holy in all things, what happens to our faith?"

“That’s what it is to be a boss,” Gyro said gently, one hand on his shoulder. “You have to make immediate decisions on the spur of the moment. There’s no time to doubt yourself; you’ll let the whole team down. If you don't trust in your own choices..."

“Did the Kurtas deserve it?” Chrollo blinked away a tear and stood up. In the yellow gleam that saturated the solar the kaleidoscope stilled. His soul glinted in the light. “Those trapped in the lie are the ones in true bondage, if you think about it. I'm only setting them free from the madness choking this world. As for my outsider, if I hadn't kidnapped him I would have never been led to repentance. Never gone home, never met you. In fact, I may be able to provide start-up fees to your operation. Once I find out how to sell off this complete collection of scarlet eyes.” 

A discordant rasping chitter sounded from within the depths of his hood. Gyro stood up, clasped his hands behind his back, walked in a full figure eight around the room before returning to Chrollo’s side at the window. “Okay, okay, I gotta ask. Why’d you stake poor old Bizeff up? I mean, he did used to run a whole country. I figured he might be of some use, but...”

“He was shunned from Meteor City.”

The alien sound grew louder as Gyro convulsed. Perhaps not so alien after all, only a sepolian laughter. “Yeah, yeah, Gyro gasped. “I mean, what the hell. We never liked those East Gorteau fuckers anyways. Oh, this day just keeps getting better.” He clasped Chrollo on the back. “I think we’re gonna get along just fine, soulcatcher.”

"How does the name _soulbringer_ sound to you?"

They clasped hands. Chrollo kissed his forehead; Gyro drew him into a bearish hug and patted his back. 

“Okay, okay.” Gyro smiled. Picked up his bag of Oceloo’s, still chuckling. “I gotta get back to work, but you take care, all right? You guys gotta lay off the suicide, remember that!”

“Meet me tomorrow before dawn. We have a lot of wellspaces to cover. Ah… may you rise again after the darkness.”

“Don’t die until you’re dead, y’hear?”

Chrollo left in a daze of bliss. His soul felt warm as a bath, big enough to span the desert. Everything he'd ever wanted seemed suddenly close. The visions of hope and splendor would come to fruition. With diplomacy and communication anything was possible. He saw no mirages in the desert, only looked at the boundless blue sky. At the edge of the city he remembered the one last thing he wanted.

Cross-legged and hunched over, in a ragged shirt and the stolen coat, Leorio sat by Bizeff's stake. The corpse lay in smoldering ashes. The book from his bag, the one with the heart, remained closed in his hand. When Chrollo approached he tossed it on the fire. Chrollo snatched it before it could burn through. 

"I showed you my book. One day you'll have to show me yours."

"Nothing in there you want to see." Leorio took it back only to toss it back on. "I had to euthanize a kid today. Leukemia and malnutrition. Could've been treated anywhere else. Think I accidentally killed Bizeff, too. Came out here and his neck was all - wrong. So I figured if you didn't come back from the ants I'd just take off."

"By truck or by foot?"

"Who cares?"

Chrollo wanted to kiss him right then and there. Instead he asked to borrow his phone.

The Zoldyck butlers left him on hold, as usual. He paced the desert as he waited, but at last his mother answered the phone. Confessions were made, apologies received. He’d suspected Illumi of working with Hisoka, but Kikyou promised repentance. Reparations, in fact. Though it wouldn’t make up for the murder of the troupe, he did have Feitan’s survival to trust in.

Kikyou offered a wish. A power that could lift any nen curse no matter how terrible. Chrollo told Leorio the truth with tears in his eyes. They could finally find freedom from the ridiculous burden of the scarlet eyes. 

"Not to mention," Chrollo added, "Meteor City's latest messiah could use the profits of the eyes. Of course, you still can't leave. Your presence here has become political." He told Leorio the details of his meeting with Gyro. A faint wind blew dust into Leorio’s eyes as he squinted at the palace. 

"That's good," Leorio said. "That's fine. I been thinking, actually. I don't want to leave anyways. Think I get it now. No one cares, no one helps. The Association, the Church, the world..."

"Oh?"

He laughed a cold bark. Held his head in his hands. "Now that I've seen how you suffer, what kind of person would I be if I left, right?"

“See?" Chrollo took down his hands. "There's still hope. Gyro will bring about a new era of Meteor City. If you stick with us, you'll find your own escape. There's hope for everyone, Leorio. Even me."

"Is that so."

"Yes. It's never too late for anyone. See - I realized something else." Chrollo chewed the inside of his lip before remembering what Gyro told him. A leader must never doubt himself. "Everything I've done I did for the love of my people. As long as I acted from love, how could I have done anything wrong? And yet... I need to make a change. I've made my decision. I'm going to love you, Leorio."

"Really."

"If you truly want to help my people -"

"Then I have to love you." Did he blink from the smoke, or from tears? "Yeah. I get it, Chrollo." 

"You don't have to. Love me, fear me, hate me, just stay with me. Remind me of the truth. I know I can't repent, but I can live in peace no matter what happens to my people. As Gyro leads us into war I will remain a symbol of our faith. Otherwise we'd be nothing more than -"

"Stop talking," Leorio said. "It's okay. It's okay. Was wondering when you'd drop a bomb like this." He looked at Chrollo with red-rimmed eyes. "Want me to tell you how out of your goddamned mind you are? But whatever, right? We're all just a bunch of meteors."

The soul of Meteor City sang into the skies. In the bright sunlight Leorio's face fell into sharp shadows. Chrollo knew them well by now. So far apart, but did it matter? 

Light and dark.

Life and death.

Love and hate.

Human and ant.

All joined together in the shadow of destruction.

"Please," Chrollo said, and Leorio pressed his lips to his in reply. A flat, ugly kiss that hurt his lower lip. Chrollo closed his eyes and poured all he could into Leorio's mouth. Pleading, pulling Leorio down to cover him. They both wept, burying their grief inside each other.

Behind his eyes the meteor fell, flames soaking the earth.

**RESTORE US TO YOURSELF, OH LORD, THAT WE MAY RETURN**

**RENEW OUR DAYS**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there might be an epilogue with leo pov. might take another month to write. like/comment/subscribe i know the sudden change in "line breaks" is a lot to put up with
> 
> 1\. shoutout to my twitter friends for putting up with my shit, and also all the [twisted insane](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3MCnyPz5zT8), [loc saint,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QonnlCNZKkY) [hope county choir](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VVYfqZCA3xo&list=RDVVYfqZCA3xo&start_radio=1) and [3 6 mafia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VmQAkhsQyCw) i listened to while writing this  
2\. the hxh dystopia is absolutely absurd  
3\. i can't wait for gon to meet gyro


	7. [deleted]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's a hot tip from me: do NOT go through your gdoc mountains and begin posting random stuff in the name of cleaning out house during a time of high stress. it will kill you. it has killed me.

[hold]


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